


This is a Gift, It Comes With a Price

by JustMyName



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Falling In Love, Loss of Virginity, Love/Hate, Marriage, Revenge, Sacrifice, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:38:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 33,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustMyName/pseuds/JustMyName
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa is mourning the loss of her rose, Loras, when she is told of the "arrangement" with Lord Baelish, and their impending departure to the Riverlands to rot. While marrying Littlefinger is something she is dreading, she wants nothing more than to escape King's Landing and never return. But every gift comes with a price, and Cersei is aware of Littlefinger’s weakness. There is only one reason for Sansa marrying Petyr Baelish....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. These Games We Play

**"Sansa Stark is the key to the North. And if Littlefinger marries her, he’ll have the key in his pocket."**  
  
  
  
The scrolls, parchment and ink crackle under his hands as he sits at his desk. Soft mewing can be heard from his girls in the background, and the pungent smell of incense creeps into his nostrils. He crumples a letter in his fist, his fingernails drawing blood in his palm. He gazes at his cup of wine; it is illuminated from the embers of the fire, the reflection of light casting blind-spots in his vision, and sometimes he wishes he could dive deep into the black nothingness....then there would be no more need for games.  
  
A knock at his door stirs him and he composes himself, buttoning his doublet and re-pinning the mockingbird that perches on his collarbone.  
  
“Who is it?”

“The Queen Reagent.” a cold, muffled voice of a guard answers from the other side of the massive oak doors.  
  
Petyr straightens. In a hurry he gathers his papers and stacks them as neat as possible, holding a small cloth to his hand trying to stop the blood. He swiftly returns to his seat, always the expert at composure.  
  
She enters, surrounded by her usual gaggle of guards.

“Leave us.” She motions them to the door. Needless to say, he is very surprised to see her.  
  
 “You are the last person I’d imagined visiting my chambers so late in the evening.” he says, a hint of a flirtation on his lips, his green-grey eyes gleaming at her, the reflection of the candles in his irises.  
  
She remains standing, asserting her power and gazing down at him. Her features display her mild appreciation of his comment.  
  
“While that notion rather repels me, Lord Baelish, this was the only way I knew of having the most privacy.”  
  
He raises his eyebrows in question.  
  
“I have a proposition for you. Remember, it seems like ages ago now, when Ned Stark and his daughters first arrived in King’s Landing, you asked me a certain question about his eldest?"

“Which you made very clear would never happen in my lifetime.....or the next.” He replies, remembering the embarrassment of that encounter. It was not one of his most intelligent inquiries, and he can feel the hotness creeping up his collar, but he refuses it to be shown in his face.  
  
“It seems my father has lost his interest in her. With Robb Stark dead, Winterfell burned to ashes,  and your marriage to Lysa Arryn so abruptly ended,” She pauses and her steel blue eyes glance at him knowingly, “Sansa Stark needs to be gotten rid of, wouldn’t you agree?”  
  
“You wish to see her married to a Lord of meager substance.”  
  
She sits, boredom creeping into her eyes.  
  
“It would require you to leave King’s Landing when the wedding is over. You would renounce your position as master of coin and your seat at the small council, and go live out the rest of your days in the Vale, or throwing your coin away at Haarenhaal...”

She puffs in annoyance, “ _Gods_ , I don’t really care. As long as you and Sansa Stark are as far away from court as possible.”  
  
He understands “court” to mean Joffrey. There can be no other reason for Cersei coming to him in the middle of the night, so eager to secretly hatch this plan after so thoroughly letting her feelings known on the subject only a few months ago.Somebody got to her, Varys perhaps or the Tyrells. Maybe he had missed a bird hiding in the darkness. It could just be Cersei sniffing him out. Either way, it didn’t matter.  This was a tainted proposition that stunk something foul. It was bound to haunt him in the future, but those intelligent blue eyes and Tully hair came to mind and somehow he couldn’t refuse.  
  
“Done.” He said, the candlelight glimmering in his eyes, but they held no expression.  
  
She was watching him. Her lips were pushed down hard into a disgusted frown, her brow creased, the slight start of her face aging. The expression made her look older than her nine and twenty years.  
But _her_ eyes gave her away. They danced with triumph.  
  
“Aha! You know that we thought about marrying her off to my Imp brother. Thought to keep her in the family, but you know how young boys can be when they tire of their ladies in court. He couldn’t bear to have his used goods spoiling his chances with Margaery Tyrell, yet the idea of her in union with the Uncle he despises he disliked even more.”  
  
She means this to hurt and embarrass him. She wants him to feel degraded, having to be married to a ruined woman, and by an infantile, wormy Lannister no less, only to be outchosen by an Imp. It’s only a brief moment. His eyes turn dark, and he drops his head gazing at his papers on his desk. His mouth twitches in discomfort. It is his best attempt at looking hurt,

“I am grateful, your grace.” He says earnestly.  
  
She smiles at his discomfort, her mouth resembling Joffrey’s in the most unpleasant way,

“I must say, your response was much more eager than Lady Sansa’s. I told her the wedding would take place tomorrow, and she was choking back tears. Pity... those big blue eyes of hers were set on Loras.” A hearty laugh escapes her.  
  
He is surprised by this. He was the last to know. He’s _never_ the last to know. He let’s the disappointment crawl across his features. She revels in it.  
  
“Again, I am truly grateful, Your Grace. I am in your debt.” He says, acknowledging her obvious pleasure.  
  
“That is the idea, Lord Baelish.”

She leaves without another word, her skirts softly moving about her. The clash of the guards armor follow her down the hall and out into the courtyard. When all is quiet, he relaxes in his chair, and sighs a deep breath of contentment. There is always satisfaction in being relieved of Cersei’s company. Removing the mockingbird from its post and unbuttoning his doublet he can no longer contain the chuckle that escapes his lips. It is just too fun sometimes, these games that we play.


	2. I Am Yours, and You Are Mine

**Here I am, a rabbit hearted girl, Frozen in the headlights. It seems I've made the final sacrifice.**  
  
  
Sansa awakens, her eyes wide with alarm as she holds her hand up and stares at it. Fluidly, she twists her wrist to inspect both sides. She flexes it back and forth, clenching and stretching her dexterous and strong fingers. She was dreaming of an unfamiliar young man, tall and sturdy, hair curling around his shoulders, and startling almond-shaped eyes as black as night, their pupils so big only a jade green ring remained at the edge of his irises. He grabbed her hand, and in the in between moment of being awake and asleep she could have sworn someone was squeezing her tightly. The presence felt real, and she could not shake it.   

Guilt floods her body as she wonders what Loras would feel of her dreaming about a handsome man touching her hand, but then her memory regroups itself as to what day it is. What Loras thinks holds no meaning any longer because her hand belongs to Lord Baelish. Images pile up in her mind of what the night will bring, how the man will run his hands with their long, slender gracefulness over her cheeks and down her collarbone, over her belly, and to the secret parts of her. He is the exact opposite of any man she ever imagined being the one to claim her maidenhead.

A scarlet blush forms on her chest and climbs to her cheeks as The Hound suddenly comes to mind, and she thinks on the kiss he gave in her chambers on that fiery night. Even he, with his scarred and deformed face, and melancholy eyes resembles something more closely familiar to the man of her dreams. At least he was a knight: big and strong.  
Sansa's mind races, _Why me? Why must I always be the martyr to the cause of the North? How did I end up with such an awful marriage? Lord Baelish has been nothing but outwardly kind since I arrived in King’s Landing, but he raises an uneasiness in me, and I never can read him. Most of the time I feel like he is laughing at me. How can I be a wife to someone I can’t understand?_

Before Lord Baelish set off to marry her aunt she was looking forward to going with him North, only to be detained by Queen Cersei. When she summoned her to her chambers she assumed it was to inform her of her marriage to a handsome Tyrell. It was one thing to accompany Lord Baelish home to Winterfell, but it was an entirely different game to become his wife. Turning over in her bed she hugs her pillow to her chest and buries her face in the down. She never wishes to leave this bed because that means she must accept her fate.  
Many minutes later, as she is groaning loudly and fighting back tears, she sits up and rests her elbow on her pillow as the dream fades from her mind. The dark eyed man vanishes like a mirage in the Red Waste until she can barely remember him at all. Only those smoldering eyes are stuck in her mind. It is morning, and the sun hasn’t risen completely as the hazy glow of dawn still lingers. The air is still and quiet, not being claimed by man’s activity yet. This quiet is only interrupted by Shae clanking a tray with her breakfast against the door.  
  
“I know it is earlier than usual, My Lady, but I thought you should break your fast early as possible if we are to have you ready by this evening.”   
She is standing steadily with her arms folded in front of her, and her back straight as an arrow. She is dressed in her usual mauve frock, and the first blush light compliments her dark beauty.  
  
She glances at Sansa’s breakfast tray, “I was able to scour the kitchens for some lemon cakes. I know they are your favorite.”  And she smiles the biggest smile Sansa has ever seen come from Shae’s lips. It’s a feeble attempt at making her situation more pleasant, and she can see the the severe disappointment in Shae's eyes. This is the last thing she wanted for Sansa, and she's made her feelings for Lord Baelish perfectly clear. If it wasn't the order of the Queen, Sansa imagines she would have slit his throat in his sleep by now.

  
"I am sorry, Sansa. I was told to watch out for you where it concerned him, and now you'll be trapped under his wing; and there's nothing I can do."

She stares at her wedding gown hanging limply over the small chair by her dressing table.  It is a sage color that she’s never worn before. Across the entire gown the stitching was such a deep brown that it almost looks black. The pattern consisted of a jagged scroll that resembled tree branches in the dead of winter. As it settled across the natural waist of the gown two stitched mockingbirds sat perched facing each other. At the center of the deep scoop neckline there was a tiny silver mockingbird that matched the one Lord Baelish wears. It signifies the partnership of their two houses.  
_I don’t understand how I, a stupid little girl, can ever be a partner to him. Why would he be interested in marrying someone like me in the first place?_

  
Sansa thinks on how different her life will be from now on. Her girlhood is officially over as of today, and for as much as she wanted to be rid of it, now that it’s gone, she deeply mourns its loss.   
     
***********************

It took place in the courtyard. It was met to be a slight by Cersei not being married in the actual Keep, but in spite of this she was glad to be under the sunshine, and being closer to the Godswood gave her great comfort. She waited inside patiently, praying the fierce direwolf at her back would give her strength. She imagined Lady's cold nose against her skirts, nuzzling her along, forcing her to be brave. Suddenly, the large doors opened and the light took her breath away. For an instant, everything was white and she was blinded. When her eyes adjusted, Joffrey came rushing at her like a demon. She sniffed back her tears, and asked, “What are you doing?”

He looked at her, viperous, “Your father is dead. As I am the father of the realm I’ll be giving you away.”

He seemed pleased with himself, and his words stung, but in truth she was bored with him. She understood that he reveled in her unhappy marriage, and thought to have her in his bed anyway. It gave her solace she was leaving on the morrow and Joffrey would no longer be able to torment her. Instead of giving him the pleasure of a reaction, Sansa turned her head, drew up her chin in mock pride, and continued as gracefully as she could down the rest of the aisle.  
  
She spotted Lord Baelish, waiting for her at the end. He wore a dark brown doublet that had the same branches that climbed up his neck from each shoulder and resting on either side of his collar was a green mockingbird. The rest of his attire was elegant and uncomplicated. She noticed his belt that had a very small, fierce-looking face as the buckle; its two emerald eyes glittering in the sunlight. He didn’t seem nervous, and she was slightly disappointed. She wanted him show some kind of emotion. Something to tell her he was real. Something to say he was just as uncomfortable as she was. (She wasn’t sure he was at all) When she settled in next to him, the officiant cleared his throat, and spoke loudly, “You may now cloak the bride, and bring her under your protection.”  
  
Making eye contact would be too horrible, so Sansa turns her back to him and waits for the cloak. He grabs the cloak from her shoulders, his fingers slightly grazing the back of her neck as he does so. His proximity makes her skin itch and her hair stand on end in anticipation. There’s a pause, and then she feels him return with his cloak, and he wraps it around her, the heaviness weighing her down.  She feels him again only this time its his breath on her shoulder and she knows he is almost close enough to whisper in her ear. She feels like he is gloating.  
  
But just when the thought enters her mind, he is gone again, the empty space returns, and the officiant continues,  
  
“King Joffrey, All the Lords and Ladies of the Court....We stand here in the sight of Gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. With these vows House Baelish and House Stark will be one. Repeat after me,” he states and motions to Lord Baelish.  
  
Following his lead Petyr repeats the vow, “With this kiss,” His voice is deep, and calm. “I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife. I am yours, and you are mine, from this day until the end of my days.”  
  
Hoping she has masked the quivering in her voice, Sansa echos, “With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband. I am yours, and you are mine, from this day until the end of my days.”  
  
Satisfied, the officiant continues, “Here, in the sight of gods and men, I do solemnly seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity, proclaiming Petyr of House Baelish and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one that comes between them.”  
  
He looks at them both, waiting. _A pause_. His eyebrows raise, “Well?” He says, quite impatiently.  
  
It suddenly dawns on Sansa, and her eyes dart to Lord Baelish. This is the first time that she can really take him in. He is waiting patiently, if not a little expectantly. His eyes are warm, and his mouth is slightly turned up into the hint of a smile, his hands clasped and relaxed in front of him.  She notices, quite shockingly (as she has never really noticed them before), that his eyes are a very pale green, and the brown and green of his doublet make them smolder with intensity. They may be inviting eyes, but open and friendly are not how she would describe them. Other than their warmness, they give nothing away. There is no display of emotion. He is no taller than herself, and she couldn’t guess at his age. He seems older than Cersei, but still much younger than her father, despite the gray that grazes his temples. There are lines around his mouth and eyes suggesting a face that has seen a breadth of expression, and a crease at his forehead that she imagines is due to long hours gazing at account books. Even so, there is nothing that denotes old age. His shoulders are  assuming, his back erect, and his movements are fluid and practiced, almost like the dancers she had seen as a child.  
His lips part, “Sansa?” he asks, his green eyes ( _Or are they grey?_ ) open with concern “Are you well, my Lady?"  
  
She comes to, blinking away her thoughts and stares at him. She looks around her to the Lords and Ladies of the court spread across the courtyard, waiting for something to happen.  
Realizing she must have just been frozen and staring at him, she blushes a violent shade of pink, _I am so tired of blushing_ , and then the only thing she can think to do is grab is hand.  
  
So she does.

It’s warm and smooth except for the hard writer's callous. His fingers are thin and nimble. He grasps her other hand, and finally leaning in, kisses her. It is so short, so light on her mouth, it is like she was touched by a feather; and its over before she has time to comprehend what has happened.  
  
“Thank the Gods!” Joffrey cheers from behind her, impatience in his voice, “ That was painful. Let’s feast.”  
  
And with that they are whisked away, her arm around his, his hand upon hers. It’s strange having him so close. She can feel the heat radiate off of him, and she’s reminded of the springs warming the floors in Winterfell. _It would not be cold in his bed, at least._ The thought makes her flush once again, the heat of it causing sweat to pool on the small of her back, and her eyes dart around impetuously making sure no one has heard her. It would have been different with someone like Joffrey or Loras. They are young men, and while they have probably still had women, the intimidation is nothing similar to how she felt with the Hound, and now _him_. There is something... Is it Fear? Exhilaration? That, just by the act of standing next to her, these men cause a deep stirring in her body. They know something she doesn’t. It’s that feeling of helplessness when you realize everyone around you knows something you don't-Have felt more, have loved more, have killed more, have lost more....They have _lived_.

 


	3. The Drumming.

**There's a drumming noise inside my head that starts when you're around.**  
**I swear that you could hear it, it makes such an all mighty sound.**  
**Louder than sirens, louder than bells, sweeter than heaven, and hotter than hell.**  
**As I move my feet towards your body I can hear this beat it fills my head up,**  
**And gets louder and louder.**  
  
  
The bedding parade wasn’t as embarrassing as she envisioned, and she made a point to ask Shae to make sure there was a robe available to her. Joffrey’s disturbed mouth glistening as he wets his lips, Cersei’s cruel eyes, and the look of need on Tyrion’s face was all she imagined. It made her skin crawl.  She wasn’t theirs to have, and she felt very protective of that. The Lannisters have taken everything from her, and this she refused to give. She didn’t want old men and boys gaping at her as many made it quite clear how much that would delight them. She would not let them have the satisfaction. Petyr seemed appreciative of this, and when she shyly made her sentiments known he stood and made a distinct announcement: if he were to find his Lady Wife in anything less than her robe on her way to their chambers, that they would find themselves in one of the seven hells.  
  
 She made it to their wedding suite just as he asked.  
  
The silence is deafening when the last giggle of the wedding guests disappears behind the large doors leading to their suite. It’s a room Sansa’s never been in before being usually reserved for guests. It’s much larger than her rooms and much grander. There is a imposing, mahogany four post bed facing a large window that overlooks the bay. She can see the last fiery hint of daylight on the horizon as the sky fades to stars. The Summer twilight casts a deep rosy hue to the atmosphere and it adds to the luminous aura of the candles lit about the room.  
  
  
Even in these large rooms she felt it close in on her suffocatingly. The closeness of him was all too apparent. She looked at the bed, at her feet, at the wall, anywhere but his eyes. Sansa waited for what felt like forever for him to say something, _anything_ to alleviate the tension in the air. Suddenly, his forefinger and thumb were on her chin gently coaxing her to face him. A heavy sigh escapes her lips as he touches her, and she could feel her heart thundering in her chest so hard that it echoed in her ears. She didn’t think she could feel this nervous. Her eyelashes flutter and she finally looks at him under heavy wine soaked eyelids. It just kept flowing at the feast, and she didn’t see the need to stop. After all, her father did warn her how fast ladies legs spread when they have had too much wine. _How wrong I was in thinking it would make things easier._ Even with all the drink, his touch had caused her nerves to shake all the wine from her body and she realized how sober she was, and nothing scared her more.  
  
“Everything is all right, my sweet Sansa” he says her name, barely a rasp.

She quietly observes him. He is still wearing his doublet, but it is completely unbuttoned, and unkempt. She can see his yellow-green tunic clearly underneath. It’s unlaced at the top and she spots his collarbone, and a slight change in pigmentation where a raised scar forms at the hollow of his neck. It disappears under his tunic. He catches her looking at it curiously and smiles out of corner of his mouth, “That’s a tale for another time, my sweetling.”  
  
She watches him smile and thinks on Loras’s lips. His were pouty and full complimenting his deep set eyes and curly, golden hair. Lord Baelish’s mouth is slim and masculine and framed by a goatee. She decides she likes his nose, it is sure and straight, and finely boned. His eyes are also tainted with wine, and his hair is disheveled. _He is not unhandsome_ , she thinks. There is something about him that she finds attractive, but she can’t place what it might be. Truthfully, she is quite relieved. She thought she might find him repulsive once they were behind closed doors, and that she would recoil away from his touch.  
  
“Sansa?” He inquires again, and his eyebrows raise creasing his forehead with lines of concern.  
  
“I am fine, Lord Baelish.....it’s just that....well,” she stutters, “I’m very nervous, you see. Well, I’m....”  
  
“I know, my sweet,” he reassures her. “You don’t have to say anything about it to me. If you are not ready....” He means to move away from her.  
  
“I am!” she blurts out unexpectedly, catching him on his arm. She just wants to get it over with. Waiting would be torture, and even though she hates to admit it, curiosity has gotten the better of her. She needs to know what it is everyone finds so fascinating.  
  
"Very Well.” He chuckles, “And please Sansa, I am your Lord Husband now. You may call me Petyr”  
  
“Petyr.” She repeats, her mouth feels odd with his given name. It’s so....familiar.  
  
He smiles at this, the first seemingly full smile she’s ever seen from him. She notices dimples on his cheeks and that it reaches his eyes.  
  
She’s interrupted by his lips lightly grazing the back of her hand, and then her cheek, and then...  
  
It’s just as before, at first. Dry and chaste, and light as a feather. His lips are softer than she imagined. The hair from his beard grazes her lips softly. She panics and freezes up realizing that she has no idea where to go from here. Her arms are limp at her side, her eyes are closed, and she feels humiliated because she is drawing a blank on what to do next, _Do I put my hands on his chest? Should I open my mouth more? Do I throw my arms around his neck?_ She settles on bringing her hand up to rest on his arm, and he takes his cue, cupping her face in his hands again. There’s more of a seriousness to his movements now, and the heat of him rushes over her.  
  
Kissing her once more, it no longer feels feather-like. It’s persistent, and as his lips are claiming hers he suddenly runs his tongue over her lips and parts them, cautiously entering her mouth and colliding with her own. Her body is stunned at the entirely new sensation and even though it takes her a moment to respond, her tongue seems to react naturally. Feeling her response, he is more keen. He’s pushing into her now, their tongues dancing, and she can’t believe this is what kissing feels like! Its rush flows over her body, from her head to her toes and all comes racing back to the place beneath her nightclothes. It’s like her body has been waiting all its life, for this moment, and her head is swimming in all the newness.  
  
His arm now encircles her waist, and he gently places his hand on the lowest part of the small of her back. He guides her to him, and she feels the hardness of his frame collide with the softness of her feminine shape. She hears a soft groan deep in his chest, and she smiles. She must say, that kissing is delightful, and she enjoys it immensely. He pulls away stealing her comfort with him, and he is staring down on her, his emerald eyes are glowing. She recognizes this now, the distinct look of wanting. Her mother had told her of the change in a man’s face when he is in this state, and she witnessed it mildly once in Joffrey’s eyes. But seeing longing on Petyr Baelish's face was not something she experienced before, and she cannot believe it is all for her.  
  
He’s kissing her neck now, his tongue making slow circles as he sucks on the delicate skin there. And now she is the one making noises, and when the soft mew escapes her lips she slams her mouth shut and her eyes dart open, hoping he didn’t hear her. His endeavors have sent a shock to her womanly place, and it creates a drumming feeling there that makes her knees want to buckle. She feels it tighten and relax, and it’s so strong that it is almost painful. She understands that need he is feeling, and she is perplexed her mother had never mentioned this part. Now she feels his fingers slowly move from her waist to the front of her dress, gently grabbing where it is open and pushing it from her shoulders. She hears it cascade on the floor, and pool at her feet. The cold hits her hard in nothing but her corset and shift, and goosebumps crawl up her arms. His fingers then move down the clasps at the front of her corset, and with practiced hands releases her from its grasp. She feels the weight of her breasts and tummy, and she knows her shift is see through in the light. Her vulnerability is substantial.  
  
Instinctively Sansa’s arms come up to her shoulders to wrap herself, but he gently grasps them midair and brings them back down to her sides.  
He has stopped kissing her now, and she can feel his eyes on her. He is boring into her and she tries to stifle a sudden need to run. Mustering all her bravery, she straightens her shoulders, and looks him in the eye. He meets her gaze intently. Then, still keeping eye contact grasps her hands in his own, and brings them up to his chest. There, he guides her to undo the laces of his tunic. She can hear the beat of her heart gradually grow louder in her ears, and it takes all of her to keep her hands from shaking. His hands drop from her and she continues until all the laces are undone and she can see the light spread of his chest hair. As his tunic slips to the floor, she let’s out a gasp, and stares, her mouth agape.  
  
What she thought was a small scar on his collarbone revealed itself to be an angry and straight track that spanned down his taught chest to just above his naval. Without thinking, she runs her fingers over it as gentle as a whisper, her eyes fascinated as she traces the path from his chest to his belly. When she first makes contact with his skin, he flinches slightly, but then relaxes. It’s unexpected. She never imagined under his neat exterior something exuding such pain and lack of judgement. For it could only have been a severe lack of judgement that earned him this.  
  
Her eyes connect, and he’s grabbing her, his mouth is fully on hers now, his lips violently clashing with her own. His hands are roaming her body from her back, gliding to her breasts, and he cups her in his hand making her grab at his back. His hands continue their journey past her belly and around to take hold of her hips before they make it to their destination on her backside. He grabs and squeezes her cheek and the throbbing between her legs returns and doubles in intensity. It is the same rhythm as the heart beat in her chest which reverberates in her head. She feels him gently go to the backs of her thighs and pulls her up. For as lean as his shoulders and arms appear they are sure in their movements. He brings her legs to wrap around him and now she is looking down on him. Her legs tighten around his waist reflexively and she fears she might fall, _I must be too heavy for this._  
  
With this he turns towards the bed, and gracefully walks up the two steps to reach it. Then with a thrust, she is flat on her back and gazing up at him. He is in nothing but his bare feet and breeches now. They are slightly unlaced from some woman pulling at him during the bedding ceremony and from all the erratic movement they sit well below where his hips protrude. There isn’t an ounce of extra padding on him anywhere. His stomach is spread lean across his hips, and his chest is compact. He is all lean muscle and bone. She looks at his face, down his neck, and observes his graceful collarbone that spreads out to his small shoulders. He is more robust and youthful than she imagined, and she is happy to say that it pleases her. _Maybe my dreams were wrong_ , She decides.  
  
She hopes that his appreciative glance down at her means he feels the same way. He puts one knee on the bed and motions for her to sit up. She does so and then, he’s lifting her shift from her body, and pulling it over her arms. Her cheeks burn, and she feels herself flush from her chest and neck. Her temples glisten, and her palms feel clammy. She feels her nipples harden with the cold, and now he’s pushing her down. He sits at the bed’s edge, his eyes for a brief second taking her in. Gently, grasping each foot in his palm and gliding each stocking off, his finger lightly trailing down her leg all while looking at her eyes. His fingers again trace a line up her shin, over her knee, to her thigh. He makes soft circles there with his thumb, and continues up until he finds where her thighs form a V. She inhales deeply, and tries not to close her eyes. She watches as his fingers dance over her creases to her tuft of hair at her center. She feels her breathing become more labored now, and she watches her stomach rise and fall. His circles continue, and now she feels her secret place pound, and she’s glad she isn’t standing. All the while, he is watching her, a slight contented smile on his lips, just sitting on the edge of the bed. While his circles continue and get more rhythmic, his other hand wanders up her hips to her natural waist, and then he takes her breast in his hand, and squeezes slightly. The sensation is obliterating, and a profound moan leaves her lips making her want to look around the room, just one more time, to make certain they are alone; but in this moment, she’s not sure she cares.  
  
Her sound coaxes him to join her on the bed. He stands and she hates the feeling of his hand leaving her, and with just the hint of hesitation undoes the rest of his laces, and slips his breeches off in one single motion. For all she imagined, and dreamed, and thought about what all the beautiful knights look like beneath their armor, it in no way prepared her for the shock of what was in front of her. It is surprising, and odd, and she doesn’t quite fully understand how it’s going to fit inside her. But in a strange way it still very attractive, and she wants to pull him closer. He descends on to the bed and resting two arms on either side of her he holds himself up on his elbows, and gazes down into her eyes. She can feel him completely now in all his slim muscle and the hardness of his manhood.

He is burning.  
  
“Sansa.” he says low in his throat. “You don’t know how I’ve dreamed of this.” She is taken aback by this declaration, _How long has he been thinking of me?_ Her mind wanders to all of their past encounters. She never would have guessed that was what was going on behind that cool exterior. Or maybe she did notice.  
  
His knees find the bed in the space between her legs and he’s gently spreading them with his well formed thighs. He’s holding her face with one hand, while his other arm is supporting her back and pulling her to him. In the movement, she feels him involuntarily thrust, and she feels his throbbing hardness rub against her own wetness and heat. Her legs instinctively wrap around him. His lips, are at her ear and he groans again, this time louder. His beard tickles and she stifles a giggle. Now Petyr’s hands are roaming her body, from her back to her breasts, and then they are grasping the softness at her hips. He’s holding her so tightly, she’s sure he’ll leave bruises. She can’t think straight, every sensation is completely new to her. She has no idea what to make of it, and in this moment she feels free. She is free of worry, and free of the games of King’s Landing. She’s free of Joffrey and Cersei’s cruel sneers and remarks. In this moment, no one can hurt or use her, she feels completely safe.  
She decides to let it all go. Sansa let’s her worries fade, and she’s decidedly ready to become a woman.  
  
As if reading her mind he slows, and raises his head slightly to face her, his nose touching hers, and claims her mouth with his. Quietly he says,  
  
“Are you ready, my sweetling?”  
  
“Yes,” She exclaims, gasping.  
  
Petyr kisses her again and he’s more sure of himself than ever, his movements are distinct and purposeful now. There’s a brief abeyance, and she feels him at her crevice, and in one swift motion he thrusts into her. Her back arches and she screams out in pain, but mostly in shock at how her fills her up, and invades her very being. Sansa dreamed about this moment for a long while now, and she was informed by her mother of the mechanics, but the feeling of it is nothing she could have imagined.  
He retracts, and once again eases himself into her, now delving deeper inside her with each thrust, their bodies joined as one. His movements become more rhythmic, and the pain subsides giving way to small spurts of pleasure. She raises her hips up to match him. Just then he lets out a vehement, passionate moan. To see a man in such rapture, so vulnerable, especially Petyr Baelish, is amazing, and she relishes it. It gives her an astounding feeling of power, something she hasn’t felt in such a long time that she thought it was forgotten. She realizes why men have started wars over the women they love. _We are the undoing of them._  
  
Sansa notices his eyes, the green almost completely vanished, they are black with desire. She’s shocked to realize these are the eyes of her dream, _But why would another man have his eyes?_  
When Sansa pulls him into her with her calves he kisses her more deeply and tenderly than ever before. As his steady thrusts turn to frenzied writhing she can feel him pulsating inside her and her walls hold him tightly.  Violently, he let’s out a long and low groan, pouring himself into her. With that, he collapses, and she’s suddenly conscious of his heartbeat pounding uncontrollably in his chest as it beats against her own. She’s aware of the sweat dripping from his brow, the wetness and the stickiness trickling between her thighs. She can feel him slowly withdrawing from her, still pulsating. The lay there, frozen like that, for what feels like eternity.  
  
Then he kisses her cheek lightly, and flutters over her lips and eyelids, to her forehead. He caresses her neck, and collarbone, finally resting his head on her breasts hugging her tightly.  
  
Unexpectedly, he looks up at her like he’s remembered something important. “Sansa” he says, his eyes are mischievous now, and his mouth playfully smiles at her.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Would you like me to give you your wedding present?”  
  
“What more could you give me, Ser?” she asks, sitting up now, confused.  
  
“Petyr.” he corrects. “And I can think of many things, Sansa.” he growls her name.  
  
He’s on her again, this time planting kisses on her small and pink tipped breast. She gasps a loud when his tongue dances over her nipple, and it forms into a hardening peak. He’s suckling her like a babe, and she’s astounded it brings her such pleasure. He releases her and moves to the other making sure they are equally satisfied. Then he’s planting kisses one by one and marking a trail with his tongue over the softness of her belly, and lapping in the hills of her hips. She wonders where he is going as the throbbing returns from earlier. Her head falls back, and she mews for him. The aching is getting worse and worse, as he finds himself further down her body. Finally she feels his nose in the red curls between her legs. She needs him now. Sansa bucks up her hips, and tries to grab onto his shoulder to pull him up to her, but he thrusts her away and keeps at his endeavors.  
  
She feels him then. “Oh my!” she says and her head jerks up to look at him. “What are you doing?”  
  
 She is suddenly mortified, and tries to lean away from him, but he shushes her, the black taking over his irises again. “Now, now, my sweetling, don’t you trust your Lord Husband?”  
  
“......Yes” she sighs, trying to calm herself. She tries to subdue her shaking nerves and control her breathing. She settles herself back onto the pillow, and closes her eyes, waiting.  
  
  
Petyr’s tongue glides softly between her folds, _I can’t believe he’s kissing me there_!, she thinks, and then she feels his tongue wandering up, closer to the throbbing, leaving trails of himself behind. Then he focuses his attention to her tiny nub, the one that is throbbing, and she almost screams out in ecstasy as he claims her there. His tongue moves up and down, and then to her pleasure in gentle circles. She’s moaning now, she can’t help herself. Her embarrassment is slowly creeping away with every pulse, and she’s arching her back to rise and meet him. His hands slowly glide up her hips and torso and find her breasts. He’s caressing them magnificently, and when he pinches the peak of her nipple between his fingers, she’s crying out and grabbing at the pillow, the sheets, anything to crush in her fist. Every nerve ending in her body is on fire, and she can feel the slow building of pressure in her loins. She’s dripping from Petyr’s seed, her own slickness, and the wetness of his mouth, and she can feel it pooling on the mattress underneath her.  
  
Sansa is surprised by the savagery of it all. It’s so barbaric and raw, animal-like, and she wonders how any one of those “civilized” people walk around in court acting like this doesn’t happen between their sheets at night.  
  
She hears a satisfied, muffled groan from between her legs, and she matches it. The movements of his tongue have quickened and her hips are grinding into the bed. There’s a drumming rhythm to them now, he’s grabbing at her thighs, and his fingers roughly pull at her backside. Sansa, continues the tempo, breathing desperate gasps until the feverish heat radiates from her toes to her chest. The pressure is so intense, so hot that she can’t see, or hear, or think.  And then there’s a shattering moment of release and she shudders and cries out!  
  
****************************  
  
  
Sansa is spent. Utterly and completely spent. A sleepiness takes hold of her, and she relaxes into the down of the mattress. Petyr comes up to meet her, and kisses her fully. She tastes herself and feels her wetness in his whiskers. He smells of her intensity combined with the saltiness of his seed. At first she feels shy, and the rosiness returns to her cheeks. She wishes she didn’t have to look at him, but she forces herself to and in this moment she sees his true face, all his masks put away, a boyish grin spread across it, and his eyes are sparkling. He swoops his arm around her shoulders and brings her in to his chest. She wraps her hands around his torso feeling his sharp hips jutting from beneath the taut skin. She can taste brine of his sweat, and smell the pungent, but appealing aroma coming from under his arms. She shuts her eyes, and breathes a deep sigh of utter contentment. Sansa is happy she is finally a woman.  
  
Petyr smiles into her hair, “Did I not tell you to trust me, my sweet Lady Wife?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks fore reading! Hope you enjoyed it.


	4. I Don't Care for This Careful Behavior

**“Oh how the rain sounds as loud as a lover's words**  
 **And now and again she's afraid when the sun returns.”**  
  
Petyr opens his eyes, blinking the sleep from them. He can’t be sure of the hour, but it seems later than his usual rising. The sun is fully shining, and he can feel the heat of the day invading the room. He pulls the sheets off after noticing the heat, and turns over on his side facing Sansa, wishing the morning away. She still slumbers spread out on her stomach. She has the sheets pulled tightly under her arm exposing the delicate bones of her shoulder. They are fisted in her hand and tucked neatly under her chin, resting in the crevice of her neck. She breathes deeply, and her back rises and falls in a slow rhythm. He notices the golden highlights in her auburn hair that glow in the sunlight shining in from the window. He admires her youthful beauty, _She is so young, and untouched._ All the worry and hurt that creases her brow during the day is absent while she dreams. Her face is calm and serene, the red of her eyelashes is brilliant, and her mouth is swollen with the morning.  
  
He still can’t believe she is real. For as much as he wished for her to be his Lady Wife, and for all the moments he imagined such as last night in the dark confines of his rooms, nothing could compare to the reality. The passion he had for her, couldn’t measure to anything he had felt for another woman ( _accept maybe her mother_ ), but even then, that was a childish obsession which in the end he found to neither be of any substance, or even returned. The Tully family had treated him in the most improper way, and in this thought, Lysa comes to his mind with her anxious eyes and heavy body. He remembers what she did to him in his weakness, and it still sends a violent rage through his body; his teeth clench hard, and his hand forms into a fist aggravating the previous wound there.  
  
Since making his home at King’s Landing he has surrounded himself with whores and women of all shapes and sizes. Even so, he hasn’t let himself be taken in by any of them. Sometimes his want to be touched and fucked was so strong, he couldn’t bare it, but for anyone in this rotten city to discover just one of his deficiencies would be the end of him.  _I will not indulge in the pleasure of having all the whores in King’s Landing like most of these idiots, and then allow other men similar to myself to reap the benefits of things I say in bed_. For survival’s sake, it simply could not pass.  
  
Just then, hearing her rustle he lifts his eyes up at her, his ear resting on his folded arm beneath him. Her eyes flutter open, and she hasn’t noticed him yet. She let’s out a deep, contented sigh, and stretches out like a cat, the pink blush of a nipple peeking from behind the white of the sheets that cocoon her. She notes him staring, and her arms come down and she smiles, a rosiness displayed across her cheeks.  
  
“Good Morning, Ser.” Sansa says shyly, her smile widening.  
  
“Petyr, my sweet.” He responds, lightly gathering a wisp of hair in his fingers, and tucking it behind her ear. He deliberately grazes her cheek with his finger, and she unexpectedly folds in to his hand resting her head in his palm. He is surprised by her actions, and thinks, it must just be the vulnerability of the morning. _She still glows from last night, and reality hasn’t dawned on her as of yet._  
  
While charming a woman usually wasn’t a problem for him, he’s never done so to someone who wasn’t his “employee.” Let’s face it. _I am not a man women rush to lure to their beds, nor really to have an intellectual relationship with either_ , He thinks disenchantedly. The closest thing he’d recently had to even a friendship was Ros, or maybe Varys, and (he chuckles inwardly) that wasn’t saying much. _After all, women want the Loras’s, the Neds, and the Jaime’s of the world didn’t they?_ _Blast be the thickness of their minds._ It was their pretty heads, gentle demeanors, and strong bodies that won them their loves. No one seemed to care that one liked to be fucked by men, the other by his sister.  And the glorified Ned Stark, for all his beloved honor, let it overtake his very being so much that his head ended up on a pike.  
  
Those are the men women love.  
  
Therefore, Petyr fully expected this innocent, barely budding woman, to be completely disgusted by him, turn a cold shoulder, freeze up... all while dreaming of her elegant Knight of Flowers. He supposed it was a business arrangement, and nothing more. He could accept that, and that was how he prepared himself that restless night before the wedding. He was good at these types of games, and would have been the perfect cold and cruel Lord Husband. He could feed off the fear and misery in her eyes. He would treat her as one of his whores. Thus, kindly reminding her when she was out of line, and when she would fuck, and the consequences if she became, to put it in his favorite words, “a bad investment.” It would be easy, and he would squash away any of the feelings that would unrelentingly swell up in his chest, _Because I know better than anyone, what happens to men who listen to their hearts_.  
  
Then her reaction last night...it stripped all of what he prepared himself for away, and  he was stunned into silence. He had so fully accepted the opposite, that when she puffed up and became flustered with fear, he calmly made for the bed, willing away the incessant throbbing in his prick, and the pull of the ache in his soul. He began searching his mind for his first plan of action in this miserable marriage.  
  
Then she didn’t.  
  
 She took hold of his arm, and there was a need to her movements, and want in her eyes.  
  
She **wanted** him. She didn’t even know him, and yet she wanted him. So then he gently cupped her beautiful face in his hands, and searched those Tully blue eyes deeply for any hint of doubt. He couldn’t find any.  
  
In that moment, he let it all go. Cat faded from his mind, and Lysa became a memory. He wasn’t Littlefinger, **He was Petyr** , and he was there to give his love to the woman before him.  It didn’t matter what was ahead of them, or why they were married. All that mattered to him in that moment, was that she was a woman standing in front of him, asking him to show her love in the most human way possible, with no ulterior motive, no game plan...Just need.  
  
  
Sansa’s incessant fluffing of her pillow stirs him from his thoughts. She finally has decided it is comfortable and she rests her elbow on it, and sits up facing him.  
  
“Did you sleep well, my Lord?” she says her eyes bright with cheer.  
  
“Not as long as I would’ve liked.” He replies, “ But waking early allowed me to admire your beauty while you slept.” His words are full and kind, and he leans closer, smiling.  
  
Completely charmed, her cheeks' hue deepens. Her face is almost phosphorescent as the sunlight glows over the creamy skin. Her eyes are the same color as a sapphire, and he revels in making them dance. It still amazes him, at how easy it is to let his guard down with her. It lifts a weight off of his shoulders and let’s it hang somewhere else for a while. There is no one to see him, none of Varys’s little birds hiding in the corners. The entire rest of the castle, of King’s Landing, for that matter, is concerned with some other issue. After all, why bother themselves, with the meager Lord, and his new Northern wife? It was the perfect escape plan for him, no longer crushed under the weight of the unforgiving Lannister paw.  
  
It was also an excellent way for him to carry out his “affairs” at a remote, and safe location, all accompanied by Sansa Stark, the last key to the North.  
  
She’s looking at him intently now, her face serious and watchful, “You are nothing of the man I imagined, Petyr.” she says his given name shyly, but the rest of her words are confident and questioning, “You are normally so artful, sarcasm and scheme dripping from every word you say. I called you the man of many masks as I found it difficult to read you. It was impossible to tell where the masks faded, and where Petyr Baelish began.”  
  
He is surprised at the cleverness of her interpretation of him as well as her honesty, _That is not something I come by often._ Even if he didn’t like to admit it, Petyr understood his reputation as a man of schemes, a man not to be trusted, a fly in the ointment.  
  
She continues, “But this man I have seen this past night, the one I’m looking at right now...” Sansa pauses a moment finding the words, “.....Well, you are completely unexpected.” She finally says decidedly, focusing her attention on the sheets she rubs between her fingers.  
  
He is quiet a moment, and then replies, “ You must know by now, my sweetling, what it is to survive in King’s Landing with your head.” He says his knowing what he is implying as well as knowing it is rather a cruel way of making his point.  
She inhales, and looks up at him, swallowing heavily. He expects tears, but even though her face contorts into a pained expression, there is no wetness at her cheeks. Being at Joffrey’s side all this time has her well practiced at the art of holding back tears.  
  
He coaxes her, “No need to hide yourself with me, my love. I am no Lannister.” Sansa returns her eyes to his, a penetrative look spreads across her features.  
  
Still, no tear falls down her cheek, and her voice is composed, “But you are their man.” She states, and her face hardens, the uneasiness returns to her brow. It seems that reality has returned to her.  
  
“Ah, but Sansa,” he leans in, his lips almost grazing hers. He can feel her breath as she exhales, “You must look a little closer...Who’s man am I really?”  
  
 *******************************  
  
With that, he turns from her and rises. His lean and graceful form standing now. Her eyes graze over him, and she blushes as she realizes her current predicament, the bliss from last night fully leaving her. When it all falls away, she’s left in this moment with a man she realizes she knows nothing about. It was this awkward dance of intimacy and strangeness.  
  
After all, their interactions were really quite brief before last night. She realizes she can count the number of times they even spoke privately on one hand, and even though it seems silly and naive now, she was so caught up in Joffrey, her father, and Loras, that she never thought on him after their conversations. It never dawned on her to pay more attention.  
  
“ I don’t know you.” She says matter-of-factly to his back. It was a private thought, and it formed itself into words without her permission.  
  
He pulls his breeches up to his waist, and turns to face her.  
  
“No one knows me, Sansa. And if I can help it, no one ever will.” He replies abruptly, gazing down at her rigidly, no hint of the expression his face held for her in the moonlight.  
  
Even though she knows it’s ridiculous- _Really, what was I expecting?_ \- she is hurt by his words, and she does her best at willing the offended expression from her face. She sits up fully now, and holding the sheets to her breasts, she dangles her legs over the side of the bed. She turns her face towards the window, again trying to will the ceaseless tears away from her eyes, and keep her features calm.  
  
Her efforts must have failed miserably because she can feel the heat of him silently rest beside her, and interrupting her movements, his fingers pull at her chin; gently but purposefully pulling her to face him.  
  
She slowly gazes up at those green eyes, and they’ve changed again. ( _I will never be able to read him. I’m a fool_.)  He must have regretted his previous harshness because his thin fingers come to the back of her neck and pull her to him, their faces inches apart. The closeness of him still unsettles her.  
  
This is his apology.  
  
He whispers, warmness returning to his voice, “What would you like to know?”  
  
Sansa pauses a moment realizing she hasn't even given this any thought.  
  
“Everything.”


	5. Promise What You Will

  
**“Now the pale morning sings of forgotten things**  
 **She plays a tune for those who wish to overlook**  
 **The fact that they've been blindly deceived**  
 **By those who preach and pray and teach.**  
  
 **And I'm a goddamn coward, but then again so are you**  
 **And the lion's roar, the lion's roar”**  
  
  
“No one knows me, Sansa. And if I can help it, no one ever will.” Sansa is meditating on his words as she threads her needle through a white small cloth. She’s embroidering her new initials onto it, along with a tiny mockingbird seated on top of the B. She still doesn’t understand why anyone would want to go through their life without wanting to be known, or at least understood, by another person. Even after their awkward confrontation this morning, she was relieved that it had not seeped into their breakfast and the silence that passed between them now.  
  
It’s a warm afternoon, and she can feel the stagnant air draw the sweat from her brow and under her arms. Petyr sits quietly at a desk, ledgers and books spread across it. All sorts of people have visited him throughout the morning, and she was happy he let her stay in the room while he pertained to his duties. Even so, she was entirely shocked at how many responsibilities he had as the Master of Coin. He could add and subtract the most complex numbers within minutes, and it fascinated her considering mathematics was never the strongest of her talents. Stories, and history, languages, sewing, and music were the things that interested her. It was Arya who loved mathematics, politics, and wars. A memory leaps into her mind of Arya sitting at their table across from her, sticking out her tongue whenever she gets the chance. Her hair is wildly pulled into a braid the nape of her neck, and her dress is stained with dirt. She has a book of the history of Old Valyria hiding between the pages of poetry Septa Mordane had given them. _Gods, I miss Arya. Please, if she still lives, let her find happiness. Let her live a full life. Let her find love, and even if I never see her again, I shall be happy._  
  
Now that Petyr was the man she was to be attached to for the rest of her life, she wished she had payed more attention to the latter for that seemed to be how his mind worked. She watched him now as his eyes were focused intently on a document, his brow was creased with concentration, and his lips were turned down seriously, gently moving as he whispered the words to himself.  
  
Sansa decided she enjoyed watching him this way. He seemed his most relaxed, like this was where he belonged. She never thought her Lord Husband’s mind would be at all important to her, but seeing this now made her proud to have someone so intellectually gifted. No, he wasn’t a knight, or big and strong, but his weapon was his mind. She was sure, and had witnessed it, that he could outmaneuver anyone at court. Even Cersei and Varys sometimes were no match for him in their duel of wits. _Only if I could read that mind of his._  
  
There’s a knock at the door, and Petyr is startled from his concentration. Sansa can see he is slightly irritated at the intrusion. He clears his throat, “Come In.”  
  
It’s one of Cersei’s personal messengers, twitchy and uncomfortable, _As anyone would be working under her steely glare._ He says with as much authority as he can muster, “The Queen wishes to speak with Lady Baelish.”  
  
It takes her a second to realize he is referring to her, and then she rises from her chair ungracefully, looking at Petyr with alarm. _What need would she have of me now?_ He nods for her to go, his face serious, but no alarm is present. Even if he is hiding his true thoughts, this comforts her. She decides if he appears not to be worried, she will muster up her courage, and face the serpent woman for one last time.  
“As she wishes.” Sansa says obediently slightly dropping her eyes to the floor. She walks over to him motioning she will follow.  
  
“Attend your duties with haste, my sweet.” He calls to her back his voice calm and too friendly, “We leave for the Eyrie the minute you return.”  
  
So it’s the Eyrie we are heading to. Sansa never even thought to ask. She had hoped they might find their way to Winterfell, but she undoubtedly knew it was only girlish wishful thinking. Admittedly, the Eyrie is the last place she wished to be. The mere thought of it sent shivers down her spine.  It hadn’t been long since her Aunt Lysa had been pushed out of the moon door in which she had thrown so many others to their abysmal deaths. The murderer turned out to be her personal musician. According to rumors around court, their relationship was questionable. He never left her side, and was granted whatever he wanted. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask Petyr about it before. He didn’t seem overtly upset over the whole matter, but how can one have formed any attachment to someone they were married to (so obviously a business transaction) for  such a brief amount of time? Sansa couldn’t say her Aunt Lysa’s death caused her any undue pain. She can picture her face, her mother’s appealing Tully features drawn out across Lysa’s high cheekbones into harsh planes plagued by paranoia and erratic mood swings. She was bulky and stumbling where her mother was lithe and graceful. Sansa had heard that after her husband, John Arryn, died her behavior became even more outlandish. She often terrified the members of her court. The fact that Petyr was even married to her, and shared her bed, caused a nauseous knot to form in the pit of her stomach.  
  
The knot clenched tighter as she stepped closer and closer to Cersei’s chambers. She had hoped yesterday was that last time she had to withstand the Queen Mother’s presence, but to no avail. She sucked in her breath sharply as she approached her doors, and the messenger knocked sternly three times,  
  
“Lady Baelish, Your Grace.”  
“Please, do come in.” she says. Her voice is cheery, and it brings dread to Sansa’s heart. She could feel her beguiling smile on her as she entered the room. The air was just as heavy and stifling in here, even with all the openness of the windows that framed the chair where she sat. It all became almost unbearable paired with the nervous heat rising up her back to her chest. Sansa thought she might faint there right in front of her. She was ashamed of her fear, and she forced it away.  
  
“Good morning, Little Dove.”  
“It is a fine morning, Your Grace. Thank you.” She nods her head in agreement and curtsies, willing her lips o smile.  
“ I trust your evening was... enjoyable?”  She is smiling at her question, but her eyes are cold as ice.  
“It was, Your Grace.” Sansa replies.  
“You are fully a woman now.” She states matter-of-factly.  
Sansa’s eyes shoot to her shoes. She wishes to not speak of any of it. _Not to her._  
  
“Please, Sansa, take a seat. I know that you are leaving this afternoon for the Eyrie,” _How would she know that?_ “And I hoped we would go over our arrangement.”  
  
“What arrangement?” She asks her, fully confused now. Cersei looks across her desk at her as if she’s a pest to be squashed.  
  
“You didn’t think you would be getting off that easy, my girl? Did you?” She brings her arms up to the table and rests them in front of her calmly. She is all business. Any hint of the courtesy she showed her when she was Joffrey’s betrothed was gone now.  
  
She continues her questions, her voice is collected and cold, her blue eyes reflect gray against the stone walls, and the deep hue of her wine-colored frock brings out the gold tones in her Lannister hair. She is glowing.  
  
“How are you enjoying your time spent with Lord Baelish? I trust he tended to you well last night. It was all your guests could do but stifle their giggles at what was overheard from your chambers.” _I understand now why we were given such a magnificent room. Our lovemaking must have been heard throughout the entirety of the Red Keep._  
  
Cersei continues, not noticing her pained expression. “There is many a man in King’s Landing that would have loved to have their hand at piercing that fine flower of yours, but I trust Lord Baelish’s whore-loving hands knew exactly how to coax such pleasure from you. I dare say, a man like that...I do wonder why he wanted such an inexperienced little bird like you.”  
  
Sansa blushes shamefully. Her cheeks burn with embarrassment. The tears with which she held back so expertly this morning are pushing vehemently at the backs of her eyes, and her throat contracts when she tries to swallow. Her mind is swimming in her mortification and it’s all she can do to make her lips form words.  
  
“ I......we.......,” She almost chokes, but manages to say stupidly, “had a pleasant enough evening, Your Grace.”  
  
“Well, little dove, I don’t wish to take any enjoyment away from you newlyweds, but this is something I’ve been meaning to share with you for quite some time now, and I think, as the only motherly figure in your life at present,” she pauses to let this settle, “ I believe it is my duty to warn you of anything that may cause you distress in the future.”  
  
Sansa’s mind has calmed, and she is intently focussing on every one of Cersei’s words. She can sense the blow that Cersei’s “news” will have for her. She knows it is something that she has tucked away somewhere for safe keeping, until this opportune moment arose where she can cause her the most pain. Her heart sinks at the realization. The feeling of being released from Lannister’s ferocity was nothing but a guise. It was a picture she had painted to make her think one thing was happening, when in fact it was something entirely different.  
  
She asks her question forcefully, projecting her voice as confidently as possible, “And what warning could you have for me, Your Grace?”  
  
She takes a sip of her wine, slowly savoring it in her mouth and swallowing. “Let me tell you the  story about your father. You see, Little Dove, your father came to King’s Landing with his honorable Northern sensibilities. He truly believed that in the end, with honesty, honor, and the truth, that the Iron Throne would fall into the rightful heir. Your people believe this is the way of the wolrd.  And you see, on that fateful day, when your father stood before Joffrey and I with a piece of paper signed by my late Lord Husband,” she laughs sarcastically at the absurdity of it all, “He thought a single piece of paper would garner his protection. Ned assumed he had the trust of a certain mockingbird, all because of some conceived notion of unrequited love between him and his wife.”  
Sansa’s heart is pounding now and her body is shaking. She can feel the tears have escaped and are gliding down her cheeks. She can taste them on her lips as she bites so hard that it bleeds. All the past moments between Petyr and her are racing through her mind, and she sees them in a clear light. _How could I have been so blind? How could I think this could have been an ending where I would be content. You stupid little girl._  
  
Cersei continues, her smile broadening into a deeply cruel beam as she sees the realization and horror creep into Sansa’s eyes. She is a predator who has her prey in its clenches, but waits for the kill even as it squirms and screams under her piercing talons.  
  
Then she thrusts them deep into her heart, “But who do you think it was that turned the City’s Watch on your father? Who do you think held a knife to his throat as those Watchmen killed his men in front of his eyes? I am afraid to say it, Little Bird...but the untimely downfall of Noble Ned Stark can only be attributed to none other than Your Lord Husband.”  
  
Sansa wills it to stop. She can’t speak. A scream is building inside her, but her lips will not form the words, she has lost all her voice, and all her fight. Any sense of dignity she might have had left as a Stark or as a woman has been crushed in Cersei’s fist. _The bloodless cunt couldn’t have planned this any better. She has stolen all my chances away, and there is no other option for me other than to crawl like a snake in the grass back into her clutches_. Sansa’s heart is breaking, and all her strength breaks with it. It has been crushed; squeezed out of her. There is nothing left, and in this moment, she wishes she could join her father in his restful peace.  
  
“Now, now, Sansa, my dear. Everything is going to be fine. You don’t think I have thought on this for a long while now?”  
  
 _Of course you have._  
  
“You see, I couldn’t tell you this information sooner. It had to be this way. Petyr Baelish is too clever. He would have seen anything else coming. It would have been too obvious for him, and he would have won. Now, you can be the master of your revenge. You can carry out what needs to be done for the good of the realm. And when your task is complete, you will return to King’s Landing and be named Lady of Winterfell. You see, my love, our debts will be paid. Winterfell will belong to you, and your future heirs, forever.”  
  
Sansa’s breath catches in her throat, and she tries not to choke. The blue of her eyes is still radiant even as they turn swollen and red. She stares at Cersei. She would do anything to return to Winterfell. _How could I ever think he was my key to getting there?_  
  
She sniffs back her tears, and straightens, resting her hands calmly in her lap. She is higher than Cersei when she arches her back straight. She steadies her voice and asks,  
“And I will never be bothered by you or any other Lord for as long as I live?”  
  
“Of course, Winterfell will be yours, and the Lannister’s will break all ties with it and the surrounding villages. There would be no attachment between our Houses any longer.”  
  
She sits quietly for a moment, staring at her with contempt and suspicion. She is till trying to take this all in, but decides she must not think, but act. She must be strong, like her father and mother, and Robb, and Arya. She must be faithful to them, and to Winterfell. And to the North. She realizes now that this is her only loyalty. It is the only thing she can be certain of, and it is the thing that matters.  
  
Sansa gazes her directly in the eye, both their eyes steely and calculating, and she asks,“What must I do?”  
  
“Oh, it is simple my girl. The only thing that stands before you and Winterfell is Petyr Baelish.” She pauses briefly to highlight her point, “As soon as I receive word of his death, you may think of yourself as Head of House Stark, and Lady Paramount of the North. You will rule, and no longer shall you be my Little Dove."


	6. You're An Angry Blade

**“Seems that I have been held, in some dreaming state,**  
**A tourist in the waking world, never quite awake.**  
**No kiss, no gentle word could wake me from this slumber**  
**Until I realize that it was you who held me under.**  
  
**Felt it in my fist, in my feet, in the hollows of my eyelids**  
**Shaking through my skull, through my spine and down through my ribs.**  
  
**No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone.**  
**No more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden.**  
**No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love.**  
**No more dreaming like a girl so in love with the wrong world.** "

Standing outside the great doors to their wedding suite, Sansa lifts her hand up to the doorknob, and spots it trembling violently. Her tummy is fluttering, and it takes all her strength to keep the bile from creeping up her throat. Cersei’s details about her Lord Husband’s betrayal won’t leave her mind, but she has no idea what to do about it. _Should I stomp in there with these accusations, or maybe let it play out keeping calm and collected?_ She is confused, and tired already of playing this game. It’s takes all her strength not to break down and cry.  
As she finally forces her fingers to turn the knob, he appears in the doorway. It seems he was leaving because surprise rushes over his face, and he smiles when he realizes it's her.  
  
“Sansa, what are you doing out here?” he asks kindly. “I thought you were with the Queen. I was just coming to fetch you. The hour grows late, and it’s time we left.”  
  
“She is finished with me,” she states, her words coming out shaky, and with none of the calmness she would have liked.    
  
He rests his hand on her shoulder ever so lightly guiding her into the room. It burns into her skin. She doesn’t want his hands anywhere near her. When they enter their chambers she notices all their belongings have been packed and sent away, the bed has been laundered, and his desk cleared of all his ledgers.  
  
The door shuts faintly behind her, and then she can feel his heat at her back. His fingers come up to the nape of her neck, and brush her hair over her shoulder exposing the skin to the cool air. She wishes he would leave her be, but her body responds against her will. He places a soft kiss on the skin there, and it sends shivers down her spine, and to her secret place. In her mind she is screaming, but her body will not listen. She is sickened with herself that it’s even happening with this man. This execrable, calculating man. She is shocked at the naivete of her wishes, _I really thought that this man may have cared for me in the slightest way.  How could I have thought a content marriage might be a possibility for me? He is just like the rest of them, out for only himself, and I am only a pawn in his game. A piece to be toyed with until he no longer has need of me._  
  
Another butterfly kiss, and the shivers magnify to throbs. The ache in her body causes her to lean her backside into him slightly, and she can hear his breath catch in her ear. She’s ashamed of her behavior. _What would Father think?_ She asks herself, but she is afraid of the answer.  
  
“No.” she sighs suddenly, her mind finally able to pull the reins on her body.  
  
“No?” He questions, now stepping back from her. He pulls her around to face him, and she’s staring into those emerald pools. They are dark and wanting. Her hand brushes up against his chest pushing lightly against the tautness there. She wishes she had a dagger, as she would thrust it into his heart, and watch the life fade from those magnetic, lying eyes. Whoever it was that first marred him had the right idea. If they had succeeded her father would still be alive. Sansa means to find out the truth behind that scar before her task is completed.  
  
“Is there something a miss, my sweet?” Sansa tries not to cringe at his affectionate name, but manages to keep her face neutral, and her voice steady and innocent, “ It’s just that...I thought you said we must be going, Ser.”  
  
A broad, sardonic smile plays across his lips causing his dimple to crease on his cheek, and she swears she catches a glimpse of knowing reach his eyes. _He’s figured me out already_ , she thinks nervously.  
  
And then it’s gone, “Ah, you are quite right Sansa. It is late, and the horses wait for us below. The Queen kept you too long I’m afraid, but nevertheless we must leave tonight. It’s unfortunate for you and I, but I gave my word.  We must hold up our end of the deal.”  
  
“What deal, my Lord?”  
  
His smile fades now, and his features grow earnest, “ If I was to have you as my wife, we were to leave King’s Landing as soon my affairs were complete. We aren’t to come back you know. Yours, as well as my, life here is over.”  
  
She knows. It was one of the reasons marrying him became bearable, and she looked forward to leaving this treacherous place. Alas, this is not her path. She will return to King’s Landing and continue to be the Lannister’s play thing for the rest of her unfortunate life. Even so, she looks up at him directly, hiding the bitterness from her countenance.  
  
“Honestly,” She states, “it was one of the high points of becoming your wife. I am glad to be rid of this wretched city, and all the people in it.”  
  
“I’m happy I could be of service.” He replies, one side of his lips raising scornfully. Then without warning he kisses her fully and passionately on the lips. His arms are around her pulling her to him briskly, and she is fully aware of his body. Sansa is so surprised (and repulsed) by his advances that by the time she remembers to respond he’s pulled away, leaving her feeling more cold and alone than ever.  
  
****************  
  
It feels as if they’ve been riding for days, and Sansa sits in her saddle pouting like a child. The sun has tucked itself away behind the mountains, but the sky is still dimly burning on the edge of its black peaks. She turns her face up to the atmosphere and stares as the rest of the sky fades to red, and then purple, and then blue. The stars are starting to appear, and with each time she faces upwards, more dot the sky blinking at her in greeting. The frogs and the crickets are singing their nighttime song, happy for the dampness left over from the rains a few days past. She grateful for the noise they bring for total silence might kill her. Even with the warmth of the afternoon, the air is muggy and cool, and she can feel a slight chill in her toes. _I wish I wore warmer socks_ , she thinks, feeling the cold creep into her boots, and up her thighs.  
  
Petyr rides in front of her, his back straight in his saddle. His body gracefully sways with the movements of his horse, and he hasn’t spoken a word since they’ve left King’s Landing. Nor has he turned his head back at her to even see if she still rides with him. Just behind her, she can hear the gentle rolling of the wagon wheels. Two grim-faced servants man the front, and the luggage is piled high secured by heavy rope. Sansa aches for Shae's presence, and she is saddened for having had to leave her behind, the reasons unknown to her. She would have been a great comfort to her in the dreary Eyrie, and she could always count on her advice. She always warned her about Petyr and Sansa finally understands why. Now that she’s without her she will have to find her way completely on her own.  
  
Petyr stops his horse, and her stately white mare stops instinctively behind him, lulling her from her thoughts.  
  
He turns in his saddle looking very weary and says, “ It is getting too dark. There’s a tavern not far up this road with rooms. We’ll stay there tonight, and continue our journey at first light.”  
  
He doesn’t wait for a response, and slaps his reins leading the horse on. She had hoped they would ride though the night, but she knows that it’s too dangerous. With all the goods they’re carrying they couldn’t hope to get much further without being robbed on the road to the Eyrie. It’s just that she can already feel the close confines of the inn room, with it’s small mattress and even smaller living quarters. There will be no escaping his heat,his eyes, or his hands. She’ll have to pass water in front of him, dress and undress, and bathe in the morning. Fear springs up into her heart.  
  
They continue on slowly, and Sansa loses track of the hour. The woods surround them engulfing their horses in darkness, and the frogs are so deafening she can’t hear her mare’s hoof prints. The trees rustle in the wind, and she stares blankly into the black forest. Her eyes are playing tricks on her, and she startles as she sees movement in the brush. When she looks again nothing is there.  
Finally, in the distance she can see torchlights shimmering. As they approach the tavern, an uproarious song can be heard from inside. It's a ramshackle piece of a building,the thatch of the roof badly needs repair, and the fieldstone walls needs repointing. After dismounting her horse, she looks up at the sign. It’s called The Wolf’s Den and she smiles inwardly. A gold carving of a wolf holding a pheasant is mortared to the wood. The bird’s head hangs limply in its jaws. _Maybe this is an omen for good things to come_ , she thinks happily.  
  
Though, as soon as they enter the doorway of the rotting place her courage leaves with the wind that blows her skirts around her legs. It’s dark inside, and has a putrid smell from the rancid beer on the floor. It sticks to her shoes as she walks. In the center of the room there’s a huge hearth, a fire the size of a pregnant sow cracking loudly. The tables are crowded with men, some sitting fireside for warmth, others with women on their laps, grabbing intimately at their thighs. Their singing starts to fade as they take notice of her, and Sansa can feel their eyes scorch into her skin. It’s so obvious they are traveling from King’s Landing, and she feels she should have changed into a simpler dress. Petyr motions for her to sit in a chair far away from the crowd against the wall, and she is glad it allows her to sit near the door.  
  
“Stay here.” He commands, and leaves her before she can ask any questions.  
  
She watches intently as he journeys over to the bar. A stocky man with a receding hairline shaved close to his head is tending to the dirty tankards, He's been eyeing him suspiciously since they walked in. Petyr leans across the bar casually, and they speak for a moment. The man curtly nods, and then motions towards a flight of stairs at the back of the room.  
  
Satisfied, Petyr returns to her, “He has a room available, and he says the servants can sleep in the loft in the stables.”  
  
He grabs her arm gently helping her from her chair, and leads her to the staircase, never letting his hand leave her back. It’s as if he wishes to have her away from these people as soon as possible. Part of her is thankful. _They would eat me alive._  
  
They head up the claustrophobic, rickety stairwell and around a tight bend to an even tighter hall. One lantern at the end of the corridor is the only light, and she can hear the intimate sounds no one should hear trickle from behind the doors on either side of them. Some women let out cries, others soft mews, and others violent screams which terrified her. She blushes fiercely, and she is glad that she walks behind Petyr so he isn't able to see her. The last door is theirs, and he fiddles with the lock for a moment. Sansa is jittery, and she wants to shove him into the door if it will get her out of this hall. Finally, he has freed the lock and opens it, leading her in with his hand gently at the small of her back. She tries not to wince at the familiarness of his touch.

  
Sansa is relieved for the room is not as horrible as she imagined. It smells musty with the hint of something fouler, and it’s dim. The candle he holds is the only flickering light, casting ghoulish shadows against the walls. But there’s a window (which Petyr immediately opens), and a dressing table with a clean chamber pot and bathing pitcher. The fresh air climbs slowly into the room, and she sits facing the wall on the small and low wood-framed bed. She removes the drenched boots from her aching feet. Straw sticks into her backside uncomfortably, but she is happily surprised to find the linens are clean (clean enough anyway). She hears the floorboards creak and groan loudly with the shifting of Peyt'rs weight as he crosses the room towards the bed. He sits on the other side of it and places the candle at his bedside table. His boot hits the floor with a thud, and then another.  Not a word. The air is thick with their silence, and she clears her throat just to make sure her ears are working.  
  
Sansa sighs and stands. She removes her Summer’s cloak and then unhooks the front of her gown. It’s such a relief as the damp, heavy fabric falls from her shoulders. She frees herself of the strict confines of her corset, and is left in her shift. It sticks to her skin, wet with sweat and the ghastly humidity; it still clings to the earth even after the storm rolled North days ago. The realization she has to sleep next to him stops her in her tracks, and she stands stupidly next to the bed. She can’t decide what to do. Either she gets into bed wearing her damp tunic or removes it. She can’t make up her mind, so still she stands there, staring at the bed, weighing her options. She’s so caught up in her decision, she doesn’t even notice Petyr hasn’t moved since removing his boots and heavy socks.  
“Are you just going to stand there all night, my girl?” he asks still facing away from her. His voice is hoarse with weariness, and colder than the blades of ice that hang from Winterfell’s walls.  
  
Sansa can’t bring herself to move. Her nerves cause her fists to clench and unclench in anticipation. Her mind is racing, and she can’t make a decision.  
  
He unclasps his dagger and holster from around his waist setting it carefully next to the candle. _I wonder if I could step over there in the night smoothly enough as not to wake him._ An image forces itself into her mind, Petyr still in the position he sleeps, but his scar now formed into a T, his throat is exposed, and a deep crimson pool of blood cascades around him like a cloak. She revels again in the thought of his eyes looking out at her, dull with lifelessness.  
  
Still she watches him. He’s calmly pulling off his doublet, and she hears the movement of cloth as he undoes each lace and clasp.  His tunic is just as wet as hers and she can see the pale skin of his back tightly stretch across the points of his shoulder blades. They roll up forming sharp peaks as he lifts his arms to pull it over his head.  
  
The plains of his back spread out as he stretches to remove it. She follows the trail over his thin shoulders, down to his ribs which sway in waves as he moves. and settles her eyes on the narrowness of his hips. The intimacies of marriage are just as new to her now as the previous night, and she feels the burn return to her cheeks immediately. Hot, angry tears stream down her face, and she wipes them away quickly when he finally turns to her. Her eyes instinctively move up and down the scar at his chest. The hills of his body glimmer from his sweat and oppressiveness of the air. They stare intently at each other across the bay of snowy sheets, but even this cannot fill the void that is present between them now. Neither will surrender in this silent duel.  
  
The flicker of the candlelight causes his green eyes to light up like when the sea had been lit aflame by wildfire. He was impenetrable, his features never displaying any emotion one way or the other. She feels fatuous trying to face him, and knows her face reveals everything. She can remember his words the day he had caught her rejoicing in being cast aside by Joffrey, _Look around you,_ he said. _We’re all liars here, and everyone one of us is better than you._  
  
The memory fully reminds her how far out of her depth she is. Sansa’s heart beats rapidly as she musters up the courage speaking out into the silence,  
  
“Tell me how you got that scar?”  His eyes linger on hers, his body still as ever. His lips curve into that boyish grin she had liked so much, causing the fine lines of his crow's feet to crinkle.  
  
“And that’s the question that has kept you so quiet, my sweetling?” Petyr asks, his voice smooth and hushed. Her eyes drop to the floor immediately, _He knows I am hiding_ , and then she gazes back up at him stubbornly questioning.  
“Well, Sansa,” he growls her name, “ ‘Tis a tale of woe to be sure.” He saunters around the edge of the bed towards her. Instinctively, she backs up, but there’s nowhere to go. She feels the chill of the plaster wall against her back. He’s upon her now, and her senses are overtaken with the polarity of his heat and her cold viciously fighting against each other.  
  
“Tell me the story.” She says again firmly staring up at him, never folding under his scrutiny.  
  
He pauses to find the words and then says very quietly, “I once told you your mother was my queen of beauty.” She remembers now the fist time she saw him, when she noticed his green eyes that never reflected his smile. He sat too closely to her, their arms touching indecently, and she remembers her father’s lips forming into a hard line staring at him sharply with distaste. In her naivete then, she never realized the undertones of their challening glances.  
  
“Yes.” She replies.  
  
“Well,” his hand is over her shoulder now resting on the plaster, and he leans in so close she can see the gold specks glowing in the inner circles of his irises, their noses almost touching.  
  
“When I was a boy, you see, I was her greatest companion, she told me all her secrets, all her dreams.” his voice is barely a whisper now. “We’d play in the woods from sunup till sundown. I was always in love with Cat since the day I set eyes on her. I realize that now.” His eyes leave hers and settle on her lips and fall to her chin whilst his fingers graze down the trail of her jaw, and settle at her neck. He clasps her gently with his hand.  “And when we grew a little older, when she was promised to another. Now I know you’ve never met this strong and brave uncle, but he was surely a brutal man. And do you know what I did, my sweetling?”  
  
Her breath has quickened, and she’s harshly staring at him, a look of fear and anticipation spread across her face. She nods slightly urging him on, in spite of her want to kick at him, and scream out.  
  
“ _You_ know my sweetling. You’ve read all the stories, same as I. And in the stories, the little man always defeats the big one doesn’t he? I challenged him to a duel, and when I was on the ground with a sword to my throat, she looked at me, pity pouring out of those big Tully eyes, “He’s just a boy, Please don’t kill him” she said. So he gave me a warning so that I would always remember what I am, and who I would never be.” He’s motioning to his scar, the bitterness dripping off his words. He moves into her even more now, the hard burning of his frame melting against her, and her knees quiver.  
  
Sansa feels like she is being torn in two, one part of her wants to slit his throat, and get the revenge on the man that caused her father’s downfall. The other pulsing inside of her, refusing to be kept caged, and she’s overcome with a sense of urgency to know the meaning behind this man’s game.  
  
Her face contorts into an anguished sneer, and the tears fall freely. She is weary of this enterprise, and can’t bear the thought of not knowing anymore. Her voice disdainfully cracks as she asks, “ So _this_ is why you did it? Because a man who never harmed you had a brother that taught you a lesson?”  
  
His eyes change now into full understanding, and his grip loosens from her neck, but doesn’t leave it. He’s still as close as before, but he brings his face down to fully look into her eyes. She recedes further from him (if she can), wishing she could fade into the wall.  
  
“Your father was too righteous for his own good.” He says, “I tried to warn him what would happen if he didn’t play the game. I _begged_ him. He brought on his own misfortunes. If it wasn’t me who pulled the dagger it would have been another. His fate would have been the same.” She shoves him off of her with a mangled cry, and to her surprise he yields, stepping away. His lean shoulders fall, and his brow presses into uneasy creases.  
  
"But I couldn’t go down with that ship, Sansa. I chose to live another day, and if that met choosing the Lannister’s, so be it. Nobody ever imagined that Joffrey would release his wrath so strongly upon your father.”  
  
Without thinking, she suddenly and viciously slaps him across his cheek. She can feel her hand tingle after with the contact, and an angry, flaming mark appears on his face. His hand flies to his cheek in surprise and pain, but only for a moment. Then he’s gently cupping her face in his hands.  
  
“But I fought for _you_ , Sansa. I made it possible for you to leave King’s Landing forever, and you refused me. Did you really think I didn’t know this would happen? You think I’m blind enough to believe Cersei would give me what I had wanted _so badly_ without a price to pay?” His hands clench into fists at her hair, and he’s got her strongly in his grips. She pulls at his arms, but he’s unrelenting.  
  
And then, as his words sink in deeply, a dreaded realization dawns on her.

She calms under his grip thwartingly, “I’m trapped.” she says pleading, more to herself than him, and he notes the defeat in her eyes. Then he’s on her more passionately than ever, kissing her fully, his tongue greedily trying to connect with hers. She can taste the mint on him, and the smell of incense lingers on his skin. She can feel the familiar drumming in the deepest part of her, and this causes a rage to take hold. She fights him, her fists pounding at his chest and shoulders violently, a wretched, “No!” leaves her lips, her cheeks now drenched and glistening with tears.  
  
His hands defensively grab her wrists tearing them from him, the skin at his chest red and raw. Then he shoves her arms up against the wall, “But don’t you see it, Sansa?” he gasps heavily, his hot breath cascading over her face. She looks up at him searching the meaning in his eyes. They are as serious and forthright as she’s ever known them to be, “ **This is your freedom.** ” he delcares.  
  
“How can that be?” She spits vehemently up at him. “How am I to survive Queen Cersei, and the entire Lannister family for that matter, when you still walk this Earth?”  Her anger is overwhelming, and she begins to struggle as she sees those thin lips turn up into that familiar, artful grin,  
  
 “Aah, my sweet, but how can I kill the Queen Reagent if I am dead?”  
  
She tenses under him in shock, “You?” she challenges.  
  
“What?” he breathes as his lips brush hers, “ You think I, of all people, accepted this marriage, solely because I loved you?”  
  
_Love?_ This stops her a moment as the steam of her anger lifts, leaving her deflated, and she stares up at him obtusely. She wants him to stop. She wants to push him away, and demand another explanation. A part of her still wishes to slit his throat for playing her like a piece, for aiding the Lannister’s in her father’s demise, for plotting, and scheming, and whoring, as well as all the other unsavory qualities that make him Littlefinger.

But his body crashes into hers ferociously, and he’s grabbing her hair, and kissing her lips, and pulls her roughly at the backs of her thighs, wrapping her legs tightly around him. She’s overcome with such desire that she can’t think of anything but his hot skin as he presses firmly against her. Her nipples form into hard peaks as they brush against the starched cotton of her shift, and she immediately wishes to be free of it. She rips it over her head in one swift motion, and then wraps her arms around his neck jarringly pulling him closer to her, her mouth crashing into his, their tongues dancing.

She feels the hardness of him against her soft swell, and moan’s longingly into his ear. Her hips buck into his, and he urgently returns the gesture.  
Suddenly, she’s away from the wall. He turns her around and fluidly throws her onto the bed. It creaks and groans with her weight, the hay poking annoyingly into her back. She doesn’t care because her need is so strong it overpowers her every thought. _All that is in this moment is him._  
  
He is free of his breaches, grabs her from behind her knees, and abruptly pulls her to meet him. His fingernails dig sharply into her skin. Without any warning, he drives his firm flesh deep within her letting out an uninhibited cry of satisfaction. The pain of his intrusion subsides more quickly this time, and as he penetrates deeper, it gives way to an extreme rhythmic pleasure. She arches up to meet each possessive thrust, and claws at his back. He writhes into her with a frenzy she hasn’t experienced before, and she’s overcome with pleasure and hatred, a push and pull that can't be contained.

Her hand forcefully comes up to his face, thrashing loudly against his skin for a second time. It's a meatier blow than her previous slap, and surely will leave a bruise. She’s surprised by her actions, and freezes up for a moment not knowing what to expect. He stares down at her, but his eyes grow blacker than ever, and she shrieks as he emphatically turns her over and grabs at her hips forcefully. She moans at his touch, and realizes it sends vibrations of pleasure through the course of her entire body. He pulls her to him, and she can feel his hardness brushing between her thighs, her rear rubbing against his pelvis pleasurably. She feels his fingers clutch at the soft doughiness of her of hips, and he delves himself deep inside her once more, his length pressing at the most sensitive spot within her walls. With each violent and thundering thrust that begin to increase in momentum, she returns each of them with a heavy, volatile moan. Then she feels his hand leave her side, and crash down loudly on her backside with a ringing slap!

The air is forced out of her lungs at the shock, pain, and pleasure which forms itself into one pulsating burn that races to her nub, and she cries out a scream as she convulses around him. He moans deeply as he feels her overwhelming spasms, and his arm flies around her front over her neck and breasts. He pulls her back to him tightly. He’s kissing her neck, still thrusting himself deeply within her until he let’s out a harsh groan, his manhood pulsating into a shattering release. They collapse on their sides, arms and legs entangled, and sleep captures Sansa before her bitterness overcomes their desire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really sure about it. They kinda just did what they wanted. ;)  
> Thanks again for reading!  
> **I kinda reiterated Petyr's backstory from the show. I take no writing credits.  
> 


	7. Dearest Forsaken

**“How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes.**

**I struggle to find any truth in your lies.**

**And now my heart stumbles on things I don't know.**

**My weakness I feel I must finally show.**

**Lend me your hand and we'll conquer them all,**

**But lend me your heart and I'll just let you fall”**

 

 

 

Sansa wakes with a startle. She sits up on her elbow and glances around her, puzzled at her whereabouts for a moment. The grayness of morning is upon them, but it is still very early, and the room is dark. The silent flicker of candlelight catches her eye, now almost snuffed, as it casts shadows on the low ceiling. No one is awake in the entire place, and it’s quiet with sleep. She turns when she notices his breathing behind her. It comes in deep waves, and she can feel it breeze down her back, causing her to shiver. While they slept, his arm was stretched out around her ribs and his hand rested just below her cheek. She could feel the smoothness of the skin of the back of his palm, and the faint smell of lemons from his hand salve.

 

Still sitting up, Sansa turns her body to face him. He shifts quietly as she does so. She enjoys watching him sleep and is surprised at his vulnerability. None of his ambiguous expressions taint his features, and his lips rest in a relaxed line. In the dawn light she can see the outline of his aquiline nose, and the bruise starting to blacken across the fineness of his cheekbone. As she watches him the thought of his neck sliced open and angry, and his warm blood pouring out staining the palms of her hands anxiously races into her mind. She pushes furiously away at the thought. She refuses to let her anger and pain cloud her judgment. (As well as ruin this quiet moment.) _If I am going to exact my revenge on Cersei, I’ll need him on my side._ She gently caresses his skin in atonement where the bloody bruise swells. He reflexively flinches, and his eyes rush open to meet hers. The confusion of first waking is present there, and she revels in his unguarded exposure.

 

It is something she’s never witnessed in him before, and it makes here realize the advantages, other than of the flesh, that the intimacies of marriage bring. Maybe, one day, I’ll be able to read that mind of his, she thinks hopefully.

 

“Why are you up?” He whispers, his voice hoarse with slumber. His forehead creases with concern. He turns on his back to face her.

“I don’t know.” She replies, “I just startled is all.”

He clears his throat and his eyes glance at the window, “What time is it?”

“Very early, but I think first light is hours away.” She says quietly.

 

Petyr groans softly turning over onto his side again, and she recognizes his dismay at being awake. His arm bends pushing into the down pillow, and he rests his head against the inside of his elbow. His other hand comes up to her tenderly grabbing at her shoulder, and he guides her back down to rest her face in the crook of his neck. She breathes him in full and deep now, noting the smell of lemons, the cedar of his chest of drawers, as well as his musty incense. She can feel the boniness of his clavicle and chest, and runs her fingertips through the softness of the hair that lightly spreads across it. She hesitates for only a moment at the raised ridge of his scar. Relaxing into him, Sansa curls her arms up at her chest, letting his feverish heat warm her chilled fingers and nose. The open window has made the room cool, and the dampness in the air only magnifies her chill. He seems unaffected, and she wonders how a man can run so hot.

 

**************

 

“Sansa” Petyr whispers. “.....Sansa.” She grumbles loudly as he lightly shakes her awake. “The sun is here, my sweetling. It’s time we moved on.”

She makes no motion to move, so he grabs at the fine point of her shoulder, and pulls her to face him. She’s still lost in her dreams, but she studies him. He has shaved, and combed his hair, and he feels a smile pull at his lips as her eyes settle on the cut he tended to earlier. It no longer bleeds, and the slice is not deep, but the bruise has darkened, and it is painful to the touch.

 

“Tis nothing Sansa. It will heal.” He assures her.

 

She sits up finally; the sheets fall to her waist and the plump softness of her belly folds into dunes as she bends. Her nipples harden with the dewy morning air.

 

“I must bathe.” She says gently massaging her lower back. She is not used to such mattresses, and it must ache.

 

"Very well my lady, but be quick about it. The pitcher still has some clean water left.” He says, still smiling, _You are a fool, Petyr Baelish._

 

He woke over an hour ago, and he’s since bathed, dressed, and gone downstairs to see about food as well as saddle the horses. She never stirred even as he stood in the middle of the room, naked as his name day, and dropped the hard soap he had brought. It fell with a deafening thump, and slid across the floorboards. Nothing but her light snores could be heard from the bed, a pillow thrown over her head, and her long, burning hair tumbling out from underneath it chaotically. She’s on her stomach, and the sheets graze just above the slight valley of her rear. He enjoys letting his eyes travel up and down the lean muscles of her back. Her arms are spread out above her, and one foot sticks off the edge of the bed. She’s a wildling in her sleep, he thinks. It was all he could do but fall into a fit of laughter.

 

Now, he rests himself in the corner, where a high-back chair awaits him as he coughs back a chuckle. He glances out the window at the trees, and he can see the cardinal sunrise intensely smolder behind them. Every few minutes, he watches a greasy, half drunk man stumble his way down the muddy road, home to the wife and children he left. The clank of the porcelain pitcher causes him to turn towards her. Sansa is finally out of bed, and he watches her standing at the dressing table, her back to him. She’s all legs and elbows, and exceptionally tall for her age. But in spite of her lankiness her womanly form is burgeoning, and there is a softness appearing at her hips, belly, and thighs. He admires her as she washes, and he knows her cheeks are burning with embarrassment. Even as he can see the pink flush reach her ears and neck she shivers with the gray cold of the room. He had almost yelped with shock when he touched his toes to the hawkish floorboards in the early morning, and he swore he could almost see his breath. The summer is fading, and the nights get cooler and brisk as autumn approaches. The Starks are right about one thing: Winter **is** coming.

 

Sansa gently washes her face, then her neck, down under her delicate breasts. She slowly, but purposely moves the cloth to her underarms where a scant spread of flaming hair peaks out, and follows down the curve of her waist. Then hesitating slightly, she breathes out and washes the warm place between her thighs. The water drips down the long lines of her legs and pools at her feet. His eyes bask in her body as it bends and straightens, her hair is illuminated by the red sky as it falls over her face. He can feel the slight twinge of desire play at his prick. He wishes to sit her on that dressing table, and fuck her right there. Unfortunate for him, there is no time for it. They must make their way to the Eyrie before nightfall. So his eyes yearningly linger on her for a moment longer, and then he continues to watch the sun as it shyly greets him from the edge of the Earth.

 

*****************

 

They ride ahead of the servants, and Sansa’s ass hurts from sitting in her saddle all day. The wind burns her cheeks as they gallop across the rocky hills of the meadow. She can see the Eyrie in the distance, and its round peak is hidden in the fog. The cliffs start to come upon them, and she tries not to glance down. The castle in the sky is the last place she really wants to go with its gloominess and Aunt Lysa’s death looming over them. She’s brooding over the fact that she has to see her annoying cousin Robert, and she still doesn’t trust that her happiness has anything to do with Petyr’s endgame. What if he hides me here and I’m never able to leave, and I’m trapped here for Cersei to find? I need to see Winterfell just one more time.  I can’t be stuck in this awful place with a man I don’t trust. Last night may have been my biggest mistake. I gave too much away, as always. So stupid, Sansa. From here on out, you must keep yourself to yourself.

 

Anxiety raids her body like the plague, and her knees quiver in anticipation. For what she can’t be sure, but she feels a dread fall over her that she can’t shake.

 

When they arrive at the Eyrie’s gates, sitting on the bridge overlooking nothing but clouds, Sansa has to remind herself to breathe. Petyr dismounts his horse nimbly, and looks up at her with a pleasant smile as his hand comes to aid her off.  Her thighs are intensely sore from straddling her mare all day, and her lips are cracked with thirst. She retrieves her newly embroidered handkerchief from her pocket, and wipes the sweat from her brow. It comes away black with dust and filth from the road. She looks at the gates hoping their luggage has magically caught up to them. She grimaces like a child when she realizes they will not arrive until nightfall, and she desperately yearns for a clean dress.

 

“Come, my sweet. We shall get you something to eat.” He says lifting an elbow for her to take hold of. He guides her through a dark passage, and up a lengthy flight of stairs. By the time they reach the top they both suck for air in ragged breaths. He leads her into the High Hall, which oddly is round with large open windows that look out at nothing but sky. The walls are painted Tully blue which makes the room appear as if it is floating. A giant piece of weirwood has been crafted into a throne, and Sansa can imagine Lysa perched high up there in that fearsome seat. She must have been quite a site with her anxious eyes piercing through you, and fragile Robert suckling at her breast. She was never the beauty her mother was, and her mind had always been tainted; even Sansa can remember that from her childhood. She can’t remember the last time she had even seen her aunt though, and she wishes she had been able to be with her one last time before her untimely death. The rumors of her unstable nature and unconventional parenting habits are really the only thing she’s ever known about her. It is said that Lord Robert inherited all her less desirable qualities as well which only adds to her uneasiness about meeting him again. She is surprised Petyr willingly came here to live, and there is no doubt in her mind that he had some part to play in her death. Even if it only consisted of a prayer ( _like he prays_ ) for her demise, she could see why he wanted to escape this dungeon in the sky that was run by a mad woman.

 

There was one reason to take comfort in staying here, and that was that it was said to be impenetrable ( _Much like the man who currently protects it)_ Even if the Lannister’s decide they wish her dead, they would never try it so long as she stayed here. It was too risky to attack this castle, and hope to come away with some of your men _. I expect that’s why he chose this as our temporary home._ Her eyes glance at the moon door, and she shudders violently. She finds it kind of ironic that this is how her Aunt met her fate. She was notorious for throwing people to the sky for even the smallest slight against her.

 

“Hmmm,” Petyr interrupts her thoughts, “I do wonder where all the servants are.” She looks around now, and realizes no one has come to even greet them, not even the squire boy to assist with coats.

 

He pauses a moment, and then grabbing her hand leads her down a dark corridor, and they stop at a heavy door with a falcon’s head as a doorknob.

 

As he leads her in she realizes it’s the solar. There are books piled everywhere in tall stacks, and the furniture has been covered in thick white cloths. The fireplace is ashy and unlit, and the room is cold. She can feel the coolness of the stone in her socks as it seeps through the thinness of her boots. He pulls at a white cloth shaking it violently to remove the dust, and motions for her to sit in a chair. As he does so, she hears quick footsteps rushing up the hall.

 

A short, middle aged woman enters the room. She has blonde hair pulled neatly into a high braided bun, and her eyes are a deep, chocolate brown. They look at her, and then to Petyr’s back anxiously.

 

“Oh! m’ Lord! We were expecting you yesterday! No one sent any word that you would be arriving late, so we assumed you were detained in King’s Landing.”

 

He rolls his eyes to Sansa, never giving anything away to the woman, “Never mind, my dear, we are here now. And I would like you to meet my new wife, Sansa of House Stark.” He says stepping out of the way so the woman can see her. Her eyes study hers intensely for a moment before she remembers herself, and gives her best gracious smile. Sansa can’t tell if she is surprised by her youth, or if she notices a resemblance to her Aunt. Both notions cause her embarrassment, and she flushes a deep red _. I must be so ridiculous_ , she thinks. But then she remembers that she is in fact Petyr’s lady wife, and she must get used to the idea. She also must make others see her as his equal.

 

“Well, Malina,” Petyr interrupts the awkward silence. “Can you please send one of the kitchen maids to light a fire, and undo the rest of the furniture? We’ll take our feast in here, as soon as possible. I’m afraid Sansa is quite parched.” _Great, now I am an annoying little wench._ “I’m quite fine for now,” she lies. “Please. Take your time.”

 

The woman looking quite put out stares at her sternly, and says to Petyr, “M’ Lord, there is something of great importance that I need to speak with you about.”

Her turns from Sansa now, hearing the alarm in her voice. When he faces her, fear overwhelms her steely eyes and Sansa can see her clenching her fists in discomfort.

 

“What can it be, Malina? Is something amiss?” He steps towards her now. She has gained his full attention.

 

“It’s just that…it may be better to speak privately, m’ Lord.”

Petyr looks at her, and sighs in irritation now, “Anything you can say to me, you can say in my wife’s presence. We keep no secrets.” _That’s a lie_ , Sansa thinks staring at him, and she wonders if he can feel her eyes boring into his back.

 

Malina sways nervously from foot to foot, and her eyes fall to the floor, “Well, it’s just that…it’s the Little Sweetrobin, m’ Lord.”

 

“What about him?” He asks.

 

“Well, he’s been ill for sometime. He grew weaker and weaker as the days past. We all thought it was just one of his spells, but he lost his fight this time. He’s with the Gods now.” Her face coils up into a pained expression, and a tear falls down her cheek.

 

‘What?” Petyr says, now in complete shock. His hands fall helplessly at his side, and his shoulders go limp.

 

“I’m sorry m, Lord!” she spits out in a desperate tone.  “We sent a Raven two days ago to tell you the news, but it must have reached King’s Landing after you had already left.”

 

Petyr takes a seat next to her now. It seems this news has shocked him as she can see his perplexed expression plague his brow, and he rubs at his temples.

 

Without opening his eyes, he asks, “And where is the body?”

 

“He was sent back to the Riverlands m’Lord, and given a proper Tully funeral. Lady Arryn…I mean Baelish Ser, made it clear that’s how she wanted it.”

 

“Thank you, Malina.” He says abruptly, “That will be all.”

 

She curtsies quickly, and leaves without a word. Sansa can hear her footsteps scurry down the hall, and she hears her scream one of the kitchen maid’s names.

 

“That poor boy.” She declares to no one and looks over at Petyr.

 

He continues rubbing his temples, and his face is pursed into a serious grimace.

 

“Yes,” he says quietly, “He was a poor, unfortunate little creature, and I dare say there are many reasons I am sorry he’s gone. It would have saved us an awfully large amount of time.”

Sansa is shocked at the annoyance present in his voice. He looks up at her directly, “I’m afraid we’ll need to move on from the Eyrie, my sweet. Now that Robert is gone, I’ve lost all claim as the Protector of the Vale. Harrold Hardyng is the rightful heir, and as soon as word of little Robert’s death has reached all of Westeros all the high lords of the Vale will appear with their swords in hand….” He slumps in his chair, drifting deeply into thought.

 

Finally, he says, “No, we won’t be staying. Unfortunately for us, we’ll be making our way to the Fingers temporarily, and bend the knee dutifully to the young heir. I should have thought of it before, but it really is the perfect place for keeping a low profile.”

 

He looks up at her and his face is calm, but fear creeps up into his eyes. It radiates off of him and she absorbs it shaking wildly, “Then where will we go?” she asks, desperste.

 

“I am sorry, my sweetling, but there will be less time now. Our plan will have to move forward much sooner than expected. As soon as Cersei hears word of my… demise,” he pauses unsure. She is surprised to see him so uncertain.

 

“It will be time for my sweet wife to unchain that fearsome direwolf.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, that was a hard one to write! Sorry it took so long guys. 
> 
> And please excuse the quick journey lapse. I know it probably takes days and days to get to the Eyrie. But for the sake of timing, I didn't want to go into detail. So I'm just pretending they can get there in 2 days!
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and let me know what you think.


	8. A Burden

**There's a price she takes. Blurring lines while she ruthlessly raised the stakes.**  
  
 **We kiss on the mouth with hearts that were bound and gagged.**  
  
 **We will seldom speak, and we will rarely talk.**  
  
 **Loss wed to despair, in love when her womb was bare.**  
  
 **A kiss, a touch, our bodies became arsonists to will and brains.**  
  
 **We will rarely talk.**  
  
 **I'm just where you left me alone by them lilacs.**  
  
  
Eight long weeks it’s been, and Sansa glares down at the stony pass below her window. The biting wind blows through her hair causing it to whip violently around her shoulders as goosebumps spread up and down her arms. She is fidgeting with boredom and indecisiveness, and she thinks that maybe it would be easier to just free herself and let the rocks take hold of her. She delves her fingers deep in her pocket and desperately grabs for the vile. She had sewn the pocket in her dress as soon as they arrived at this dreadful place. Sansa couldn’t have him finding it lying in her trunk after all. She opens her palm to reveal a tiny muse bottle that holds a red liquid. It’s the Essence of Nightshade that Cersei had given her before she left King’s Landing. _Ten drops and he’ll never wake up, and it’s untraceable. No one will ever know. Just ten drops. They’ll think it an accident._ She regards the bottle a moment and thinks she would rather use it on herself. It would save her the trouble of jumping out the window.  
  
Her moon blood hasn’t appeared in weeks. It was due over a fortnight ago. She can’t say she is upset not to have the messy trouble, but the thought of what it means sends dread through her bones like the cold air whipping at her face. Her fingers instinctively play with the boning of her dress that covers the softness of her tummy, and she can feel the tightness of her breasts under her corset. _But surely he must have noticed by now that I haven’t bled?_ It was all she could do to keep her muck porridge down this morning as the smell reached her nostrils. The nausea came on so strong that she had to excuse herself. He looked up at her curiously with that now familiar crease across his brow, but she averted her eyes so he couldn’t read her. _He can always read my eyes_ , she thinks angrily and puffs. After spending so much time with her lord husband Sansa had learned the art of keeping her features steady, but her eyes betray her every time.  
  
Petyr has had her in his solar for the better part of every afternoon, forcing her to read the history on houses, castles, bloodlines, marriages, deaths, battles, and wars. He says that knowledge is the power which is the key to her endeavors. But at this point she can’t see what good it will do her. _How will any of that help us kill the Queen Reagent?_ Even after these tiresome months she still can’t see the endgame. She raises her arm angrily as if to throw the vile. She wishes for nothing more than to watch it smash against the stony wall. But instead she let’s it fall into her deep pocket and takes her frustrations out on her perfumes and brushes that line her dressing table. She swipes them swiftly off the surface with all her strength. They thrash across the floor violently and glass shatters everywhere. She immediately regrets the decision when she realizes her favorite lavender oil is now all over the floor. It took months for her to receive this in King’s Landing. _How will I ever get another bottle here?_ For as thankful as she is that they are momentarily safe here, she bitterly detests every rock and boulder that make up this retched place. The Fingers are a far cry from King’s Landing. And Highgarden for that matter, she thinks as she sinks to the floor, defeated. Sansa then lets her mind wander, and she can feel the warm sun at her face. His smooth petaled gift that matches his gilded curls brushes the tip of her nose as she breathes the sweet scent in. Loras, with eyes like the sky whisks a fiery lock of her hair behind her ear and kisses her cheek. As he does so, his eyelashes caress her like butterfly wings.  
  
“Sansa, my sweet?” She is startled when she hears Petyr call to her from the hall, and the door rushes open revealing those perceptive eyes. Loras’s image leaves her like a ghost as she rouses. He gracefully kneels beside her and she feels his hand clutch the small of her back.  
  
“What has happened Sansa?” He says, his reserved voice perturbed.  
  
She looks up at him guiltily. “Tis nothing Ser.” she says, her mouth twitching as she holds the tears of rage that swell at her eyes. She can plainly see that he is aware this was no accident, but he says nothing.  
  
“Come here.” He stands as gracefully as he knelt, and offers his hand to hers. Sansa instead decides to push herself up on her own, but follows him dutifully to their bed. Petyr sits quietly, and faces her, considering her earnestly. He’s playing no game this morning.  
  
“Sansa, I know something has been troubling you recently.” He takes hold of her hands with his soft fingertips. Those fingers which orchestrate so many plans have become an immense reassurance to her these past weeks. She’ll never admit that to anyone though. _What would my mother and father think of me feeling something for this man? Or Arya for that matter?_   She shudders at the thought.  
  
He’d come to her almost every night since they’ve arrived in the Fingers, his eyes weary  after reading by candlelight for hours, and the tips of his fingers stained black with ink. He rests those familiar, smooth fingers against the curve of her hip, pushing himself against her backside, and nuzzles his face into her neck stirring her from her sleep. She can’t help but give into him night after night. For he is the only constant in her ever-changing situation. She cannot count on anything or anyone, but her deepening attachment to him, aware to no one accept for the Gods, gives her endless comfort.  
  
“Sansa?” His voice is more persistent now. “Tell me. What is it?”  
  
“I’m sorry my Lord. It’s just.......”  
  
His fingers brush up against her cheek just like Loras’s had a moment before and his thumb glides under her chin. He pulls her up to face him, and urges her on with a smile.  
  
“I am just tired. That’s all....and my moon blood hasn’t come yet.” She replies shakily.  
  
“What?” he says as his beam rushes away from his face. It loses any playfulness that tugged at his lips and the corner of his eyes.  
  
“Are you sure Sansa? Sometimes these things can be quite tricky, unreliable you could say.”  
  
“It’s been more than a fortnight. I can’t see anything unreliable about that.”  
  
“So you think you are....” She is surprised to see him stumble on his words.  
“With child, Petyr.” She says using his given name carefully. She still feels too familiar using it, but he has been patient with her indecision.  
  
He stands suddenly and she feels the usual coldness that accompanies his absence. He paces to the hearth, and warms his hands over the fire for a moment ( _as if he needs warming_ ) then turns to her again.  
  
His face is apprehensive, but there is happiness in his eyes. _For I can read yours too Petyr Baelish_ , Sansa thinks and smiles at him.  
  
“You are quite sure then?”  
  
“Yes. I am certain.”  
  
“Well then,” he says matter-of- fact, and comes over to her again, but does not sit. “We must call for the Maester than shouldn’t we? But Sansa,” he says grabbing her shoulders roughly, “We must keep this a secret for now. Even from the servants. The three of us are the only ones that can know. For the sake of our plans word must not get out. **Cersei can never know.** ”  
  
“That is very fine, Ser, but surely it will be difficult soon. I think that my corset must already be taken out.”  
  
“ I know, my sweetling,” And he kisses her fully on the mouth. “But it will all be over soon. Very soon.”  
  
*********************  
  
Leaving her alone, Petyr shuts the door to their chambers, and roughly leans against it. He looks to the ceiling and to the floor searching for anything to keep his attention on, but can see nothing but dingy stone. His chest heaves up and down, and he feels panic rush through his bloodstream and ring in his ears. He stifles a scream. Sweat beads at his temples, and then to back of his neck and reaches his back soaking through his tunic. His mind is frenzied, and he still can’t seem to catch his breath. It was all he could do to keep himself from grabbing his dagger and stabbing her deep within her womb, killing anything that might be growing inside her. _How could I have been so stupid! I let my guard down that I completely forgot about making sure she had Moon Tea. How could I have let this happen to our plan?_  
  
He tries desperately to calm himself for he can’t let anyone see the terror in his eyes. He glances down the end of the hall searching for Malina. Nothing can look amiss. He inhales slowly, and then out. He does this for several minutes until his breathing has calmed, and he can feel his nerves unwind themselves. Then to his astonishment a sudden and beaming, broad smile grasps his lips, and his crows feet creasing deeply. He is thankful no one is around to witness his stupid grin, _Even Sansa_ , but his simple humanity pushes it’s way to the surface, and he feels such a sense of pride that it’s all he can do but contain it. _What am I going to do with this girl? I’ am sure she’ll be the death of me._ His body goes limp as he sorts through his emotions, and with a sigh he slides down the door to the raw stone.  
  
He doesn’t know how long he closed his eyes for, his head resting in his arms, but when he wakes he decides the maester can wait until the morning. The exhaustion he has been pushing away for days has now fully taken hold of his being, so he gently opens the latch, and enters the quiet room. The cool breeze faintly blows the feathery curtains in the window, and her shattered shards of glass still lay in corner, glimmering in the candlelight. He then eyes Sansa, her back to him. She is still holding the book she was reading, and the candle softly illuminates her strong and beautiful features. He undresses silently and climbs into bed behind her. His hand finds the bottom of her shift and makes it’s way up the smoothness of her thighs and hips, but instead of stopping at his usual destination, he lets it pass over her warm place to the plushness of her belly. He tenderly lets it rest there and pulls her into him. His face nuzzles into her neck, and she wakes as his beard brushes her skin. She raises slightly, and her puff of breath makes the room go black. She settles again, and he can feel her pushing herself closer to him. Even though it’s been weeks and weeks since their marriage, he is embarrassed to think that her responsiveness still surprises him. Then, as he feels her softly grasp his hand where it rests on her belly he whispers, “And what a perfect mother you will be.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for how late this is! I am getting married in 6 weeks so things have been nutso around here.
> 
> This is just some fluff and angst to keep you going to the next chapter! Things will be happening now! 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and let me know what you think.


	9. Dead Man's Will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! I'm back! I am so very sorry for the long wait, but I hope you enjoy this chapter. :D

**“I'm not calling you a liar, just don't lie to me**  
 **I'm not calling you a thief, just don't steal from me**  
 **I'm not calling you a ghost, just stop haunting me**  
 **And I love you so much, I'm gonna let you kill me”**

 

 

Petyr rolls the delicate bottle in his palm watching the amber liquid glow from the embers of the fire. It is a serum of Sweetsleep, Milk of the Poppy, and a dangerous amount of Essence of Nightshade. He was afraid to even ask the Maester what else it contained. Those three ingredients were enough to rattle his nerves. He had told him that he would need to take at least half the bottle. It would make him fall into a deep, black, dreamless sleep. It would gradually flow through his person, slowing each vital organ in his body down one by one. Lastly, it would reach his heart... it's beat would fade so much so that it would become untraceable to the average person. His body would be still and unfeeling. His blood would run cold.  
  
“And what are my chances for waking again?” He asks Maester Ayman quietly in his chambers one night after making sure Sansa was asleep. Even though she knew something was coming it had to be real for her. Her reactions and emotions had to come naturally, or Cersei would know she was scheming as soon as she saw her.  
  
“It really depends on how your body handles the serum, Lord Baelish. It can take a few days to wake again or even longer. Obviously you will be in the privacy of my Chambers, and no one will know you are here. After the funeral ceremony I’ll have my payed men smuggle you back into the castle. I have a tincture that should start the reversal of sleep, but it will take another few days for your body to recover even after your mind has returned. Even so, I have never used this before myself, but I read through the books and it has been known to cause palsy effects, loss of the use of limbs, and slowness of mind long after the serum has worn off. In some cases, even death is possible. It is a risk, Ser. I can’t promise you a full recovery.”  
  
“I understand the risks.” He growls at him, standing up and pacing over to the window looking out into the blackness. He shudders at the thought of his mind being blank, or even worse....joining Cat wherever she was in her dark, restful place. He was also anxious at what would happen to Sansa returning to King’s Landing with no one to protect her and his child in her belly. What Cersei promises and what actually comes to pass are two very different things. He knows that she has probably told Sansa she would return home with no attachment to the Lannister’s any longer, but he is sure that she has some other scheme just waiting for this one to take its course.  
  
“And what shall be my cause of death?” He asks him seriously, turning around to face him. The man’s eyebrows raise at the question, “ I have been mulling it over. I think we should use your previous wound as the excuse, and say that complications from it caused stress on your heart. It’s vague enough, but not something anyone would raise an eyebrow at. We could say it was an inevitable death. That it was just a matter of time.”  
  
“That will work perfectly well.” Petyr replies. There will probably be rumors of murder and plot, but no one will find any foul play to speak of. And it will save him from having an actual wound to recover from.  
  
“Thank you Maester Ayman. I trust in you that all will go smoothly. And remember this is between you and I. No one else can know, not even my wife. She may suspect something, but you are not to answer any of her questions other than explaining my death.”  
  
“I understand, Lord Baelish. You have my word, on the old Gods and the new.”  
  
“Forget your Gods, swear it on your life. That will mean something to me.”  
  
“I do. I swear to you on my life that no one will ever know the truth.”  
  
“Good. Thank you Maester. That is all. I trust you will get a good night’s rest. You will need it for these forthcoming days.”  
  
“Thank you, Ser. And you as well.”  
  
With that he leaves Petyr to himself. The fire has died down to a smolder, and he could feel the draft from the window and chimney. The days had grown very cold, and The Fingers looked as dreary and grey as ever. Even still, Sansa had kept to her morning walks in what they called the garden. It really was just a maze of rocks with thick vines and flowerless thickets, but she seemed to love it nonetheless. He came upon her one day resting on a boulder and noticed her hands were clasped together, and heard her soft whispers. He realized then that it was where she prayed. She was using it as her personal Godswood. She looked beautiful in the misty morning. Her hair was tousled by the salty sea air, and her cheeks were rosy from the wind. Her eyes and skin were bright with the pregnancy. It suited her very well, and he thought she never looked more fair. He watched her as she rose, pushing herself forcefully off the rock. Her belly was swollen and protruding now, and it couldn’t be hidden beneath her corset and the folds of her dress any longer. Even so, they dared not announce it to anyone. A rumor spreading to King’s Landing is one thing, but an announcement is quite another.  
  
Thinking on her, Petyr decides he will check in on his lady wife. They both had been so engaged in their daily burdens that the only time they had a peaceful moment to speak was in the dim light of their rooms before they went to sleep. Making his way to their chambers he slowly opens the door to reveal her back to him. She has the window wide open to the elements, and the icy wind whips her hair against the curve of her back. She is in nothing but her nightdress, and his eyes follow the contour of her hip as it gracefully flows to the curve of her ass.  
  
“More beautiful than ever, my sweetling.” he says quietly to her. She turns somewhat, acknowledging his comment, her lips are turned up slightly into an appreciative smile.

"I thought you were asleep?" He asks, mildly irritated that he hadn't been more careful.

"I couldn't get comfortable." She says to darkness outside.  
  
“You’ll catch a cold.” He warns.  
  
With some distinct vigor she forces the window shut, and turns to him fully.  
“That wind is mighty fearsome, but I cannot help it. I am always burning it seems. I think I stole your heat.” She says fretfully, and he notices the feverish, rosy hue spread across her cheeks.  
  
“Ah, but you never need steal anything from me. I’ll gladly give it to you.” He replies lightheartedly, pulling her to him.  
  
He smiles as he sits on the bed and grabs her wrist tightly. He rests his hands on her hips and delves his fingers deep into her flesh. He can feel her fingers spread soothingly through his hair, and he kisses her swollen belly placed in front of him.  
  
A small sigh escapes her lips, and she leans into him letting his face caress her tits. She has been so sensitive to his touch after the nausea ceased. He reveled in it.  
  
“You shudder at my touch, Sweetling.” he says grinning up at her, his voice muffled by her bosom. Her eyes smolder as she gazes down on him, but she doesn’t give in.  
  
“Aaah, only in your dreams I think, Lord Husband.” She replies teasingly as she pulls away from him.  
  
She turns from their bed and waddles over to her dressing table.  
  
Her face grows serious and she looks at him intently, “You haven’t summoned me to your solar for five days past, Petyr. Is something troubling you? I hope you aren’t drowning under you work.”  
  
Her voice growls the word “work” bitterly. He knows she means the plotting and planning he has been so focused on these past months.  
  
“I don’t understand why you chose to teach me history when what I really need to be learning is what we are going to do with Cersei.” her voice raises anxiously, and he can see the terror and doubt which creases her brow.  
  
“Ssssssh! Sansa.” He hisses. “Please keep quiet. You need not worry yourself. It would have been different, but with your condition.....you know the stress is not good for you. Your situation has changed.....”  
  
“Oh, so this is **MY** fault?!” She interrupts him. Her hand violently waves up and down as she motions to the roundness hidden under her nightdress.  
  
She gets up to leave as fast as she can, and knocks over her chair in her haste.  
“Sansa!” he groans loudly rushing from the bed as she makes her way to the door. He grabs her wrist firmly, and pulls her back to him in one, swift thrust.  
“Sansa. That is not what I met, and you very well know it.” He says calmy, trying to soothe her. She looks at him fiercely. There’s a fire in her eyes that matches her burning hair.  
  
“Don’t you think I don’t know that you are up to something, Petyr Baelish. I’m not the stupid little girl you married anymore. I know what’s behind those liar’s eyes.”    
  
With that she forcefully pulls her wrist from his grasp, and quickly brings her hand to his face with the intention of giving him a wicked blow. Instead, he catches her fist before it meets its destination. He uses his strength to pull and turn her around. Then powerfully, he holds her body to him using his forearm to lock her in his grasp. His other hand grabs savagely at her hip. She lets out a wretched and frustrated cry when she realizes he has her in his clutches. When she backs in to him trying to thrust herself away he can feel her ass brush against his prick, and smell the lavendar in her hair. He finds it so amusing that this little thing can still send shivers down his spine. He never imagined himself as the picture of monogomy, but he just can’t get enough of her. And the fact that she’s so clever makes his prick grow harder.  
  
Petyr brushes her neck with his lips, but doesn’t kiss her there. He rests there fleetingly before moving his way up along her graceful jawline to her ear. He knows she can feel his hot breath creep down the collar of her dress because she relaxes for the slightest moment before struggling to be free once more. She sucessfully jabs a pointed elbow into his belly, but even so she can’t release herself as he tightens his grip; his hand moving from her breast to her neck.  
  
He whispers as his fingers clutch her there firmly, “ You are such a cunning girl, my sweetling. But I’ve told you this before... you must trust me if we are to seek your revenge.”


	10. Our Endless Numbered Days

**“There are things that drift away like our endless numbered days.”**  
  
  
“You must remove this bottle when I am gone.”  
“Yes, I know, Lord Baelish. We’ve gone over this many times. I will take the bottle, and position you so it appears natural. I’ll leave no trace.”  
  
“Yes, well....thank you Maester Ayman. Petyr states tensely, irritated that he is having so much trouble finding the proper wording. He moves his hand to his thigh and feels it shaking uncontrollably. He pushes down hard on his knee forcing it to still, and can feel his nails scratching his flesh through his breeches. _Stop being a coward_ , he thinks ashamed of his trembling in front of the maester. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this scared. Most certainly not since he was a youth. It wasn’t death so much, but more the fact of losing his thoughts, his mind. It’s the very thing that makes him who he is. His intelligence defines him. If he were to lose it when he awoke, he feared he would never recover.

 **He would be nothing.**  
  
“Lord Baelish?” Ayman clears his throat and speaks softly as he stands over him on the opposite side of Petyr’s desk.  
  
Petyr gazes up at him directly and can’t recognize the emotion spread across the man’s face...  
  
Aah, but yes he can. _Pity_. It is the unmistakable look of pity. He would know it anywhere even though he hasn’t seen it since Cat peered down on him with those marvelous eyes. He knows it because of the fury that swells up in his chest causing his blood to run hot and his fists to clench.  
  
Ayman continues, “I am going to leave for a few minutes and tend to Sansa, my Lord. I will be back in ten minutes. Does that suit you?” He can’t tell if the man is choosing to ignore his state or just doesn’t care.  
  
“Yes.” He hisses. “Things will be..taken care of.”  
  
Petyr watches the man leave and waits until he hears the distinct click of the oak door closing tightly behind him. He retrieves the serum from his doublet and holds it up to the light between his forefinger and thumb. He can feel his heart start racing at the sight of the amber liquid, and it feels like every nerve is aflame.

Without a second more thought, Petyr swallows the entire bottle in one gulp. The liquid feels hot on his throat like a strong spirit in one of his brothels. He places the bottle neatly back on his table, and arranges his papers so that it looks like he was in the middle of working.  His thoughts becomes more vague by the second, and he relaxes into the back of his chair, his hands going limp at his side. His breathing slows into shallow gasps, and his mind drifts back to his boyhood...

He can hear the water of the Tumblestone and Red Fork Rivers clashing together in a violent rumble and feels coolness in the air that it generates. That's when he realizes he is at Riverrun. He sees the mist as it rises off the water in the early dawn.  It is her... standing behind a tree, her auburn hair shining in the pale light of the sunrise. “I can see you!” He calls to her, and is surprised to hear the deep tones of his natural voice. He realizes he is not a child, and holds up his hand to the sun to see it appear as he is now.  
  
“Cat!” He calls out to her, and rushes down the hillside to the tree line. “Cat! It is me, Petyr!” He is close to her now and he can hear her giggle, but she doesn’t show herself.  
  
When he reaches the tree where she hides, he steps into a rabbit hole and falls violently to the ground. With a defeated groan he rolls onto his back and basks in the sun, letting its intense, morning glow light up the inner walls of his eyelids, and they match the shade of her hair. He can hear her pad behind him, and he is ashamed of the rosiness that reaches his neck and cheeks.  
  
“Petyr.” She says his name lovingly, willing away a giggle brewing in her chest. He realizes now that she isn’t a girl at all. She’s a young woman, and a tall one at that. Her face is black against the sunlight, but he would know that auburn hair anywhere.  
  
“Cat, why didn’t you come out from behind the tree?” He asks as he takes her hand to help himself up.  
  
“Because....” She says. And he can see it now. It causes him to startle in surprise.  
  
“Sansa...” Her name is a whisper on his lips.  
  
“Who else could I be?” She replies, caressing his cheek with her delicate hand. Her eyes bright as the river.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet... Hope you enjoy. 


	11. The Sleeping Man

**“The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out.**  
 **You left me in the dark.**  
 **No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight**  
 **In the shadow of your heart.**  
  
 **And in the dark, I can hear your heartbeat**  
 **I tried to find the sound**  
 **But then it stopped, and I was in the darkness,**  
 **So darkness I became.”**  
  
  
The bright sunlight of the morning reflects fiercely off the white linens as it peers in through the window, and Sansa can see her eyelashes lit aflame under her sleepy eyelids. Her hand needfully searches the bed for Petyr, but he had risen earlier than usual, and his side of the bed was cold to the touch.  
  
*****  
He slept fitfully through the night, and his tossing woke her in the darkness of some late hour. He was facing away from her, but she knew he was awake by the sound of his uneven breathing. This was a regular occurrence for some nights now, and in her stubborn anger she had contained her urge to comfort him. Tonight, Sansa wrapped her arm around him, her belly keeping her from getting as close as she wanted to be. She felt a pang of guilt run through her because of the being that kept them apart. Their bodies could no longer entwine like they used to, and she thought it a good representation of the void that sat between them now. It was all the unsaid things and all the secrets that passed between them wrapped up warmly in her womb.  
  
“What’s wrong, Petyr?” She quietly asked him, her breath warm on the back of his neck. It was a begging question.  
  
He sighed loudly, and turned around to face her causing the bed to groan in the darkness. She was surprised at his irritation. As he drew closer, she could feel his nose as it touched hers, his breath on her lips, but she could not see him. She desperately wanted to search his eyes. They were her only clue to the secrets that he kept hidden behind them.  
  
“Nothing, my sweetling.” He whispered. “Sometimes matters of the day will not leave me be at night. That is all.”  
  
She knew he met it to be reassuring, but his comment annoyed her slightly with its dismissiveness. She did not wish to return to their argument from the other evening. So instead she nuzzled into him, hoping her display of concern had at least comforted him in some way. Then she kissed him lightly on the mouth, and let herself slowly drift back to sleep.  
  
  
******  
Rising slowly, Sansa groans trying to sort out the worried memory of last night. She tries staring at the floor for a moment to will away the nausea brought on by the emptiness of her stomach. She can feel a fluttering there, and knows that the baby moves. She had been feeling this for a week or so now, but when she tried to have Petyr feel it he would huff with annoyance, and swear nothing was happening, “I think you tease me, My Lady.” He would grumble with a disagreeable frown. For as much as he was trying to be lighthearted Sansa could see the blame registered on his countenance. He was angry with her, and she could feel it oozing from him. _He thinks he is hiding his feelings from me. He thinks he is getting away with something. I can feel it_ , she thought gravely. _I just don’t know why._  
  
She wanted to ask him why he was lashing out at her, but thought it better to wait until this evening to make her sentiments known.  
  
Before she can get up off the bed, there’s a steady knock at her door.  It’s the maester on his usual check-up. Due to Petyr’s insistence, he comes to her every morning making sure that she’s feeling well. She thought it rather overbearing, but given the circumstances didn’t think she was in any position to argue. _It is our child after all....It is **Littlefinger’s** child._  
  
She gathers her robe around her tightly, and peeks around the large oak door.  
“Rather early, Ser!” She says cheerfully trying to mask her irritation.  
  
“I know, My Lady. I am sorry.”  
  
“You would think a woman has never given birth to a child before at the rate Lord Baelish sends you to see me. I am quite certain that there have been many women in the world that have   survived their pregnancy without so many visits from a maester.” She says as she makes her way to her dressing table.  
  
He smiles at this, but looks at her seriously. “Not all women are Sansa Stark of Winterfell, My Lady.”  
  
Sansa tries desperately not to let her child-like fury cross her features.  
  
“How are you feeling today?”  
  
“Perfectly well,” she states dully, “I am having my usual nausea, and the baby moves during the night which is keeping me awake.”  
  
“These are all normal things, I can give you something for the nausea.”  
  
She questioningly eyes him, “Lord Baelish has had trouble sleeping these past nights as well, Maester Ayman. Has he mentioned anything to you by chance?”  
  
She searches his face for a reaction. She thinks she sees a hint of hesitation, but no emotion gives the man away, “No, My Lady. I am sorry, but he has said nothing of it to me. I will ask him today if he wishes for a sleep remedy."  
  
“Yes.” She says flashing a girlish smile his way. “Very well. Please mention this to him. I would be greatly obliged.”  
  
“Very well, Lady Baelish.” With that he leaves her.  
  
Her smile fades as quickly as it came. The man’s reaction only added to her suspicion of her husband. If it was really just the “matters of the day” that were bothering him while he slept he would have asked the maester for something by now. Petyr was not a man that would allow lack of sleep to trouble him for longer than a night or two. He was always so adamant about how important being well-rested was for the mind.  He would never allow himself to let something as boring as sleep get in the way of his work. _If that man thinks he can have me be his wife and keep me out of his affairs_ , _he thinks wrong._ Sansa fumes and stares ravingly into the mirror her cheeks red with ire. A vision comes to her falling through the furious wind, her body thrashing against the rocks. The sea taking his prize and his only heir to its depths. She had thought on it so many times these past weeks, the notion had grown tiresome.  
  
Before she can think better of it she leaves the room and paces as fast as she can muster to his solar. She will have an answer, and she will not let it rest until this evening. She rushes past maids and servants, and almost runs into the maester in her haste.  
  
“My lady!” He exclaims grabbing her elbow, but is unsuccessful in his attempt to stop her. She rushes by him without as much as a sideways glance.  
  
The large oak door is shut, and while normally she would give him a soft knock so he can prepare himself she decides he is in no such luck this morning. Sansa wants him to feel her rage as it passes through the doorway.  
  
She smashes through, slamming the door with all her might. It crashes with a loud thrash into a side chair behind her as she enters and papers go flying off his desk. But when she gets her bearings of the room she realizes that there is no clever remark at her entrance, no haughty chuckle escaping his lips. The fire crackles loudly next to him, and she realizes he is asleep in his chair, his arm hanging limply by his side.  
  
“Petyr!” she angrily exclaims as she rushes over to his desk. His name has grown comfortable on her lips, especially in her anger. The urge to slap him across the face is making her hand itch so she grabs at ther skirt to keep her hand in place.  
  
“I demand you tell me the truth!” she yells at him, but the air is taken out of her command when she realizes he still hasn’t woken up. The slam of the door should have done that let alone her angry whales.  
  
Immediately deflating, a gasp escapes her like she was punched in the stomach, and her brow cinches into deep lines of concern. “Petyr?” she asks. It comes out as a defeated whisper.  
  
His eyes are half closed, and his head has fallen limply resting on the side of his high-backed chair. His hand is in his lap, its inked stained fingers still holding the milky quill pen. She follows the lines of his body down past the awkward, lifeless placement of his legs and feet, to the floor where his ink vessel had crashed to the floor.  
  
It takes a long moment for Sansa’s brain to comprehend what she is seeing, but when it finally does, she lets out a wretched cry, “Petyr!” Her voice cracks in a grotesque scream as she rushes around to his side of the desk. Her hands reach his face first, and they find the back of his neck. She shakes him violently, “Petyr! What’s wrong! Wake up! Petyr!” His head rolls violently against his chair with each shake, and when she catches a glimpse of his eyes, she recognizes nothing. There is none of the usual robust life present in them, nothing playful.....  
  
 **Nothing.**  
  
She can feel the tears uncontrollably falling down her cheeks, and with each violent sob of his name she feels them get heavier and heavier mixing with snot and spit as they turn more and more desperate.  
  
“Petyr! No, no, no......” She sobs again and again. In her desperation, she slaps him across the cheek expecting him to suddenly wake, and this was all some cruel joke.  
  
 **Nothing.**  
  
Her desperation finds her clinging to him, her hands ripping the buttons of his doublet, exposing his lean chest and scar. She rests her ear against it, and listens. Except for the sound of the fire crackling she hears nothing but silence. The familiar beat is nonexistent.  
  
 **And there is no heat.**  
  
The coldness present veritably makes her want to recoil from the feel of him against her cheek. She shudders as the cold seeps deep within her and touches her soul.  
  
Her knees scrape the ground as she falls. Her legs just couldn’t hold her weight any longer, and all she can do is stare up at him as her body shuts down and will not move.  
  
  
*********  
She remembers little of the rest of it.  
  
She doesn’t know when. It could have been hours later, a maid came running into the solar. She remembers the woman’s scream when she realized what she was seeing, the fading sound of her heavy footsteps as she ran down the hall  Then many others came rushing in and out. Her maids tried to pull her away from him, all of them failing until the maester ordered some of the servant men and guards to drag her away. She flailed and screamed and choked out sobs, biting her tongue hard when she flung her head into the man’s face behind her making her able to see only a flash of white, and then stars.  
  
She let her gaze fade into the bright whiteness of their room as she was carried to the bed. Someone had undressed her and some moments later the maester let himself in quietly. He held some tincture in his hand and she knew it was something to make her sleep.  
  
They knew it was the only thing they could do for this hysterical creature. Her sobs had abated somewhat after she choked on her tears so badly she thought she was going to wretch on her maid.  
  
“Is he well, Maester?” her voice sounded like that of a mouse. “Tell he must be all right. I just saw him this morning. He was fine. He was the picture of health. Someone must have done something. Someone must have done something!!” she was yelling now, her sobs returning to her. Her confusion adding to her anxious plead. “Please!” She screams up at him hysterically, “You must do something! You must.....”  
  
“Ssssh.” He quietly hushes her and tries to put his hand on her forehead, but she thrashes away from him, and fitfully slaps the serum from his hand and it spills all over her as it falls onto the bed. She feels her body convulse as she tries to escape his grip, but even with all her might she feels herself restrained as one would an invalid.  
  
They force the stuff down her throat.  
  
It takes only moments of her thoughts to fade, her body becomes heavy, and the last thing she remembers is a whisper in her ear, his soft breath falling against her cheek as his lips graze her skin....  
  
“Remember my words, Sansa.”  


 


	12. Don't Forget That it's a Lie

**“Time it took us**  
 **To where the water was**  
 **That's what the water gave me**  
 **And time goes quicker**  
 **Between the two of us**  
 **Oh, my love, don't forsake me**  
 **Take what the water gave me**  
  
 **Lay me down**  
 **Let the only sound**  
 **Be the overflow**  
 **Pockets full of stones”**  
  
  
The Silent Sisters arrived from the House of the Dead for the cleansing the next morning. Sansa had refused to have him moved anywhere other than The Eyrie, and demanded entrance to his chambers as they bathed his body. She watched their slow and graceful movements as they brushed the cloth against his now pale and lifeless skin. She followed them from his collarbone, across the fiery scar that sealed his fate, to the protruding hip bones of his thin waist. It was still impossible for her to fathom he was no longer contained in this body she had come to know so well. That his heart did not beat, and there was no brilliance in those green-grey eyes. That the Earth would reclaim him, and he would disappear forever, no longer a part of the waking world. It was a Vale custom for the men to be clean shaven before burial. One Sister gently coaxed the razor along the scruffiness at his cheeks and at the top of his lips. He looked so much younger without it, but she did not like the change and used all her strength to keep herself from ripping the razor from the woman’s hand. To calm herself, she leaned against the cold stone wall of the solar. His writing table had been moved to the center of the room and clean linens had been hung over it. His body was resting upon it, hands clasped neatly at his chest. The Silent Sisters had dressed him in the traditional habit and placed a seven pointed star covering his compact chest as well as weave prayer beads through the graceful divots of his fingers. She almost laughed at the site. Petyr, of all the people in the kingdom, being buried with such pomp and superstition. It seemed almost ridiculous. He would have never allowed it if he had had any say, but since he was the Lord Protector of the Vale, and it was his birthplace (even originating from such a meager part of it). It was only proper to have the full, traditional wake.  
  
Usually, when the Sister's have finished the cleansing there is the traditional Keening, where family members and close friends join the women who prepared the body to mourn. She had read in one of her stories that the crying from the mourners is so loud that it can be heard as an eery, melancholy song to haunt the prisoners trapped int the sky cells. In reality, Pety’rs was nothing of the sort. For it was only Maester Ayman and a few of the key house servants that joined Sansa in his Solar. The air stunk of tobacco and the smoke cast a hazy glow to the room. There was no time for anyone to travel from so far away, and it was not like Littlefinger had many close associates worried about him in King’s Landing. In actuality, once news had spread there in the next coming days, she knew how relieved many of them would be to be rid of him so prematurely. Her mouth puckered with disapproval at the thought of their gloating smiles. All the visitors lined up to give their sympathies, but she heard none of them. She didn’t even remember it being over until she realized she was alone.  
  
Everyone had left her and she realized it must have been a long while that she had been staring at the floor. The sun had gone down, and the candles were burning the last of their wick, creamy wax gliding to the floor like steps. She looked up to see him still laying there, still silent. She stifled the sob trying to escape her lips, but it caught in her throat and she coughed; spit, tears, and snot all combining messily in her mouth. Sansa compelled her body to inch itself closer to the table to rest by his side. She had to glance at his face one last time before he was buried the next morning. She couldn’t allow herself to forget it. Before forcing her hand to his cheek she gave one last wish to the Gods to feel the heat radiating from him. But there was none of it to speak of. His skin instead was atypically smooth and cool as the stone wall she had been leaning on.  
  
At this touch, the tears became uncontrollable, and all she could think was that she was nothing more now than when she had been that scared little girl, afraid of everything, and possessing no home, no family, not even a real friend to be trusted counting on a dream of a knight to rescue her. She was a flowered woman of seven and ten, married and bedded, heavy with child, and widowed. But the sad truth was that it didn’t make any difference. She very well was all of these things, but she was just as alone and terror-stricken as she was in King’s Landing. Nothing had changed. It was a veil over what was real, a lie. And the one thing that saddened her the most was that even though she never completely trusted him, and couldn’t believe that she wasn’t somehow just a part of one of Littlefinger's bigger schemes.....It was that she realized that she loved this man. The complete version of him. It was an arduous, puzzling love she never saw coming. He wasn’t a knight or big and strong and brave. He didn't possess the gentle demeanor and perceived masculinity she had thought she wanted. He wasn’t even a thought in her mind before their arrangement, but that didn’t change anything. She had loved him, and what she most regretted was never telling him the truth. Even if she was just some piece in his grand scheme, or just some way to re-imagine his love for her mother. Even if she met nothing to him, all these things didn't change the fact that she knew he deserved to know that he was loved and precious to her. She was sure that was what he had been searching for since he was a child, and he died before he ever got to see that not everything we believe is an illusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for the hiatus- that pesky thing called life! I am also sorry for another short, depressing chapter, but I hope you like it and I've had inspiration for this fic so expect an update soon!


	13. Is There a Ghost

**"Up with your turret**   
**Aren't we just terrified?**   
**Shale, screen your worry from what you won't ever find**   
  
**Don't let it fool you**   
**Don't let it fool you...down**   
**Down's sitting round, folds in the gown**   
  
**Sea and the rock below**   
**Cocked to the undertow**   
**Bones blood and teeth erode, with every crashing node**   
  
**Wings wouldn't help you**   
**Wings wouldn't help you...down**   
**Down fills the ground, gravity's proud**   
  
**You barely are blinking**   
**Wagging your face around**   
**When'd this just become a mortal home?**   
  
**Won't, won't, won't, won't**   
  
**Won't let you talk me**   
**Won't let you talk medown**   
**Will pull it taut, nothing let out"**

 

Petyr was buried early the next morning. The sun had barely begun to show herself over the glistening, snowy hills, and the air was frosty as it burned against her cheeks. They were dry now by an act of force. She did not want to appear the hysterical child, that she most certainly felt like, in front of these outsiders. After all, people die every day, and with his wound no one expected he would live as long as he had to begin with. The women chattered about how she should thank the Gods for the time they were given and be grateful for the child in her belly. His name will live on, and that is the most he could ask for, for a man who started with nothing shan't long for anything more than that. Their murmurs and cackling grated on her ears like a dying rabbit’s cry in the night. She longed to return to her rooms and lock the door forever. Their bed was the only place she wanted to be. For its warmth and the lingering lemon salve and musk smell of him was of some small comfort. Therefore, after the guests were shown to the great hall for wine and a meager feast of cold meats and some broth with bacon, Sansa excused herself without taking a bite. She closed the shutters tight, locking out any light, and then blew out that candle letting the darkness and silence wash over her. It took hours for her nerves to settle and she finally fell into a fitful sleep.  
  
***  
The loud creak of the door being shoved open and the faint glow of muted candle light woke Sansa at an untellable hour, and she felt muddled and disoriented. Then there was a strong hand on her shoulder and a low whisper, “Sansa.”  
  
“Sansa, wake up.” _He nuzzled her neck, his hot breath cascading down her collarbone. The sweet mint rousing her senses._  
  
His heat left her as she opened her eyes and turned abruptly. It was someone else. _Who would come to her at this hour?_   She turned almost throwing her shoulder into his nose. Coming to, she realized with relief that it was only Maester Ayman. She pulled the sheets up to her chin and relaxed into her furs, “You must come with me, My Lady. I have something I need to show you.” He stated hurriedly and out of breath.  
  
“What could you possibly have to show me at this late hour?” She asked, suspicion creeping into her voice.  
  
“Please, my lady. You will want to see this.”  He looked behind him as if there was an apparition glaring at his back, and she could not understand why he was so agitated.  
  
“What is going on? Why are you so distressed?” she asked, sitting up with a look of confusion pressing her brow into a crease.  She forced herself up and padded the winter-chilled floor for her socks and dressing robe.  
  
“And my lady, it is no longer nightfall, but the first light of dawn. You have been asleep for two days past.”  
  
“Two days! Why has no one woken me?”  
  
“They tried, my lady, but when you would not stir they thought it better to leave you rest. No one wants to be a bother to a grieving woman. I checked on you to make sure it was nothing to do with the child, and decided it was best you were left alone.”  
  
She decided she could not argue with that, and was grateful her servants had cared enough to take care of her while she was indisposed. She hadn't been a very useful Lady of the Eyrie recently. There was no one to take on the long, daily list of needs that it took to keep such a large castle running properly. They must have been greatly overworked this past week. She would be sure to do something cordial for each of them once she was able to get herself in working order. She must be strong. As she had so many times before, she had to face that life did,in fact, go on. Even when a loved one was no longer living it with you, there were things that still required her attention.  
  
Sansa would also have to observe the truth. She had to move back to the capital just after the child was born. There was no way around it for there was nothing here for her now, and she couldn't reasonably live here alone. She had sent a raven to King’s Landing yesterday and she was coming to terms that she would have to face Cersei after all this time. The one thing she could be thankful for was that Joffrey was no longer able to torment her. This did not comfort enough as she would be back in the clutches of the Lannister’s to most likely be married off to Tyrion after all. The only thing she could pray for now was that her baby was delivered healthy and made it through infancy. This child had to be her primary focus from now on.  
  
Her thoughts consumed her as she followed Maester Ayman through the dark halls, no sun to speak of shining through the windows, and her breath steaming in the cold. She wrapped her arms around her, pulling her cloak tightly to her belly. She could feel the gentle prod of her womb as the baby moved, and her back ached as she gently waddled behind him. She was desperately hungry, but couldn't bring herself to interrupt what Maester Ayman deemed so important. She knew the man wasn't one for wasting anyone’s time.  
  
He took her far below to a section of the castle she had never been to before. The passages’ walls closed in on her as they neared their destination. The wetness of them smelled sour to her sensitive nose and she had to hold back a gag in the back of her throat. She realized now that he was taking her to his private chambers. She saw no reason why he should ever need to bring her there. It was why he always came to her. They both very well knew it was improper for her to be in a man’s private chamber’s that weren't either her husband’s or her brother’s. _It didn't seem likely she would be in any of their chamber’s any time soon_ , she thought mournfully.  
  
“Ser, where are you taking me? Is this quite proper?” She asked and hoped no servants would observe them on their journey.  
  
“ I know this is quite irregular, my lady, but you will want to see what I have to show you.”

He repeated his words without stopping to turn back to her. His voice quivered, and she could hear his breath was heavy in his chest. What is wrong with him? Why would he be acting this way?  
  
She had a thought to steal herself away without a sound, returning upstairs unnoticed until he reached his destination. By that time she would have conversed with one of the servants and had his room searched by guards. Whatever it was he had in there surely had to be offensive and unsuitable for ladies, even criminal. She could not afford to be wrapped up in some kind of ghastly scheme. Her heart fluttered in her throat as they came upon the small wooden doorway to his chamber, but she was surprised that there was no grisly feeling of dread swelling in her gut.

Instead, she could smell the musty scent of the earthen floor and sweetness of mulled wine. There was the sound of the quick crackle of a good fire. The warmth radiated at the doorway, and bright candle light flickered. She knew the presence she felt as soon as she stood in the corridor. It was him. The ghost she knew all along would torment her forever.  
  
  
 **  
**


	14. Cold

**“I don't want your heart it leaves me cold**   
**I don't want your future**   
**I don't need your past**   
**One bright moment**   
**Is all I ask.”**

He had heard their footsteps coming to him, hers the slow strides and careful steps of a woman heavy with child, his brisk and nervous. He could not see her in the corridor but he could feel her presence.

She hadn’t seen him yet, but he knew she could already tell who was behind the large wooden headboard. He was facing the opposite direction towards the window, the fire blazing against his cheek which caused small beads of sweat to drip from his gray-lined brow. He was sitting up, propped lazily against too many down pillows for his liking.

His usual graceful legs were useless to go to her as he desperately wished, so he just rested there, waiting in uncomfortable torment. The air was thick with silence, and he could sense her confusion. In his mind he imagined every crease of her brow, every wrinkle in her nose, and every twitch of her enticing lips as she wracked her brain for answers.

He knew she was combing through every moment of the last week, trying to find what she had missed, what subtle hint in one of their conversations she had not noticed, or an expression on his face that she had misread. He knew that his Lady Wife was not going to take this news very well, and honestly he thought it may be the end to any kind of affection or intimacy they may have shared, but it was a choice that had to be made, a quiet move on the board. He knew there was no other way their plan was going to be successful.

“Petyr…..” he heard her whisper. It wasn’t even a question, his name taking her breath away.

*********

Sansa couldn’t breathe. His name was caught in her throat, and it was as if her lungs had closed themselves off. Her heart was pounding uncontrollably in her chest as she slowly inched over to the bed. She wondered why he hadn’t gotten up yet. _Was he that much of a coward that he could not face her?_ She finally reached the simple, but large oak headboard, and propped herself against it. The baby could feel her excitement and kicked. Her hand came quickly up to her lower belly for support.

The bed was close to the fire, and she could feel the intense heat radiating from the hearth. The cloying essence of mint and lemons with small undertones of the putrid scent of sick still lingering in the air. She thought it may be more than she could bear to look directly upon him. It was just too hard to comprehend that he was still alive, that he hadn’t left her here to fend for herself, and that she had been completely fooled by him….again. So she chose to stay where she was, unready for the truth.

“I….” she heard his rasping voice try to say something, and then he stopped as if he couldn’t come up with anything useful to announce.

  
“How could you do this to me?” She asked him pleadingly, still not rounding the bed to face him. To her satisfaction, her voice did not falter. It stayed smooth and even as she asked the question.

“It had to be done, my lady. You will see. This was the only way.” This was all he offered her as a reply.

She held back her tears now, but her voice still gave no hint of emotion away. All her thoughts came tumbling out at once,

“I entered into this marriage contract with only the slightest notion of who you were. I knew you were the Master of Coin that owned all the whores in King’s Landing, and you weren’t to be trusted even with all your smiles. I knew nothing of men or the politics of marriage, or what it met to be your wife. But in time, I saw hints of Petyr flicker through the mask you kept for all others. I do understand what it was my mother saw in you years ago, and why she protected you from my brute of an uncle. I thought my eyes had opened to who you really were, and imagined that you saw something in me no one else cared to. You made me feel as if I was strong, and you were going to help me overcome the Queen. I didn’t care whether it was for your love of my mother, or just as a way for you to further yourself in some game. What I didn’t realize was how complicated marriage and my emotional ties to you became, especially with your baby growing inside me.”

There was nothing but silence from behind the bed, nothing but the crackle of the fire giving rhythm to her words.

She continued, “To everyone else, it probably seemed a great relief that my older and social-climbing husband passed, giving me a chance to find someone better suited for the daughter of Ned Stark. But I have to admit this to you…I didn’t realize it before I thought it was too late. But even with all that’s happened between us, I think you deserve to know my truth. I was standing there looking at your lifeless form, no hint of expression on your features, your skin icy to the touch. It was in this moment that I realized that I loved you, all of you. That I didn't want to live this life without you. Of all the people in the entire kingdom, it was you Petyr.”

She paused, her voice faltering only slightly at her affirmation, the pain forcing through her feigned cold demeanor.

“But in the end, the songs others sang of the mockingbird were true. You betrayed my trust, the same as my father. I know now that someone like you could never truly love. Only possess.”

And with that she raced from the room before he could utter a response, without ever peering into those grey-green eyes, now full of life. Those which she still desperately longed to see.

 

 


	15. Plans

** "I'm coming up only to hold you under  
I'm coming up only to show you wrong **  
  
**And to know you is hard; we wonder**  
**To know you all wrong; we warn."**

 

The letter from Tywin Lannister arrived three days later. It states what she fully expected- Lord Baelish’s death releases her from any further obligation towards Lannister family. She would be free to return to Winterfell (even though he makes it perfectly clear there is not much to return to), and her child, if it survives to adulthood, will be her sole heir.  
  
She decides she will find out more once she reaches King’s Landing. She must return there to have the baby. If Winterfell is in ruins as Tywin says, it is no place to give birth to the child, and she can’t stand to be in the Eyrie for one more second.

  
She has not spoken to Petyr since their previous meeting, but this past night she could not keep him from invading her thoughts. The baby could sense her, awake and jittery, and moved continuously, sometimes sending a sharp pain to her side with a swift kick to the ribs. To ease her discomfort, she lay on her side and rubbed her hand over the tautness puckering from her abdomen. Occasionally, if the babe forcibly shifted she could see a strong wave of movement spread across her belly. It was like nothing she ever felt before, and it made her heart ache knowing Petyr would never see it.  
  
***********************************************  
  
“She is gone, My Lord.” Maester Ayman states bleakly, greeting him at the doorway.  
  
“She left for King’s Landing at first light.”  
  
“Did she reveal any other information?” Petyr asks gruffly, trying to keep his hand from crushing the quill between his fingers.  
  
The silky, black ink is threatening to overflow from the vial that rested on the portable desk spread across his thighs. They were as worthless as ever to him at this point. He could still barely turn his ankles or wiggle a toe, let alone lift his entire leg off the bed. He was beginning to think he would never walk again, to live out the rest of his days as a cripple.  
  
_Wouldn’t that put smiles on the faces of everyone in King’s Landing? All waiting for him to fall to some kind of embarrassing ruin?_  
  
Then a bitter chuckle escapes his lips when he remembers that everyone in the capitol thinks he is dead. How perfect. His name and face will never cross one person’s mind in the entire kingdom again. _Except one_.

It was useful to him before to go unnoticed. Harmless and powerless Lord Baelish, the small man from a stony spit of rock no one cared to visit. Only a certain few in King’s Landing knew how dangerous he really was, how his wager was stronger than he let on. Now that he was dead none of that mattered. Then his racing mind paused for a long moment. He thought that maybe he could use his current state on the board to his advantage. His pathetic circumstance could be advantageous.  
  
  
Finally, after the maester cleared his throat to remind Petyr of his presence, he replied.  
  
“You made her aware of my wishes then?”  
  
“Yes, My Lord. I made it clear that no one can know that you are still alive, but it seemed that she wanted it the same way. She said it would do her no good to think of you as alive. She made it clear she wanted to have the child where it was safe and there were proper maesters and midwives to see to her if anything should go wrong. She grows heavier everyday My Lord. By the times she reaches the city her time will be very near. I hope the babe does not decide to come early for she may not make it to King’s Landing.”  
  
“While I am sure that my wife will make the journey in good time, it's evident it is no concern of mine. Her wishes cannot be mistaken....Now please, help me up.”


	16. Note!

I am so sorry to all you readers for the major, major delay. I had a baby ,and I'm sure some of you know what that does to your free time! I wanted to let you know that this has become a high priority to get this story finished. I haven't forgotten about it or you! I will be updating shortly. 

All my love.   
JustMyName


	17. Naked as We Came

**“She says "wake up, it's no use pretending"**

**I'll keep stealing, breathing her.**

**Birds are leaving over autumn's ending.**

**One of us will die inside these arms.**

**Eyes wide open, naked as we came”**

 

Blinking away the blurred lines of boredom from her eyes Sansa shifts uncomfortably in her chair, the babe forcing painful pressure on her pelvis. Hushed voices of the Queen Regent and her lady’s maids can be heard behind her. They are sitting relaxed at her ornate dining table, and the candle’s amber gleam softens the severe angles of her face. The wine has flowed freely, as is her custom, and Cersei is in an unusually cheerful mood. Her haughty laugh grates on her ears. The Queen Mother has been preening since Sansa arrived four days ago. She was almost motherly towards her when she stepped out of her carriage, greeting her as she would one of her own children. It gave her the sense that she was playing the fool, that there was some trick she had stored up her sleeve that would dash away her sincere comfort in returning to King’s Landing. _I am a true traitor to the North_ , she thought. In a strange way, feeling the warm sun on her face and seeing the Red Keep familiarly perched atop Aegon’s hill, made her feel like she had returned home.

But after three days of niceties and congratulations on widowhood, Sansa could hardly contain her thinly veiled venom. She imagined it spewing out of her like a snake, but she felt none of the perceptive glares stem from Cersei’s cold blue eyes. There was no jealousy or grievance present there. Everything had changed, and Sansa found it baffling that one man’s demise could have brought her such utter happiness. Of course she was not going to ruin it by telling her that he died of natural causes. When she arrived she discovered that Petyr’s plan had extended beyond her, his meager wife. King’s Landing was notified of his death, but the only information sent by Raven was that he had died by poisoning. There were no further details so the Queen took this to mean that Sansa had succeeded in her scheme. The two women were heroes in outsmarting the man who couldn’t be had. Sansa almost laughed at the confounded gapes peering at them at court when the news was announced publicly. Sansa was congratulated on her cunning, and awarded the title Wardeness of the North, as well as a very beautiful estate for when she felt the need to visit the capitol. She would be welcomed freely at court as she pleased.

Sansa felt no need to disclose the fact that Littlefinger was in fact alive and well, _Maybe not well_ , in the Fingers doing whatever it is Littlefinger did with his time these days. It took twenty-five dreadful, sickening days rolling about in a carriage and replaying the moment in her head. The smell of lemons, and musk returns to her nostrils, and she can taste the mint. The deafening crackle of the fire is the only thing that breaks the silence between them, and the one thing she wishes for is to see those eyes. _Why did I not look into them just one more time?_ Maybe it would have changed something. She repeated the last words she said to him, remembered the silence from behind the headboard of that bed, and remembered the smell of sick that emanated from him, his legs lifelessly propped on a pillow. Sansa had turned it over and over in her mind, and envisioned it so many different ways that by the time she reached King’s Landing she wasn’t sure what was real and what was only her tortured imaginings.

Her thoughts are interrupted by a stabbing, achy pain that radiates from her lower back. She sucks in a deep breath of air as it silences her train of thought. She tries again to shift in her chair when it subsides, and her hand immediately finds her protruding belly. She blushes at how much time she spent at night in her chambers just staring at it. The babe preferred to move as soon as she laid down to rest. She saw it was the Gods’ way of getting her prepared for the many sleepless nights ahead with her little one in her arms. But she found the movement fascinating. To see it shift in her womb, the skin of her belly swell like a wave and she could feel its tiny bottom push to the top of her stomach. It made her smile to watch the life move inside her, and she would playfully press back on her tummy, and then wait for a reply. This simple joy was a wanted distraction to everything else, especially those gray-green eyes; even if it was just for a short period. But as soon as she closed her eyes at night they would re-appear, calling her back to him.

Then again, the sharp pain returns and clenches her. She sucks a deep breath once more, and in her haste to move her hand to her stomach she knocks over the gold chalice resting on the small table next to her. It gracelessly clanks on the ground, staining the stone blood red.

Cersei hears the commotion, “Little Dove?” she calls to the back of her chair, “Is everything well?” “I’m….I’m not sure.” Sansa’s voice rasps, “I’m having pain.” Before she can turn to face Cersei another contraction bites at her womb. “I think this is it….” She sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. “…The pain is great……”

A pause to compose herself, “I was told it would be many minutes in between each pain. This seems so quick.”

“They always seem hurried dear when they are actually happening. Last longer too.” Her voice is calm and complacent. Cersei heads in her direction and sends two of her ladies to fetch the Maester and midwife. Once she’s upon her she grabs her waist and confidently leads her to her chambers. As they traverse down the dark hall the only noise is the rustling of their hurried skirts and a dallying guard’s armor clashing about as he followed behind them. Sansa must stop momentarily halfway and she searches the wall for support while another contraction grips her body. She closes her eyes and her mind blanks as the pain takes hold of her. All she can focus on his her breathing, the sharp inhalation of air in and out of her lungs. Cersei is a calm presence at her side, still guiding her gently down the hall to her rooms. _She is an expert after all_ , she thinks. Just then, an immense fear takes hold of her as she realizes this is only the beginning.

Before she knows it, Cersei has had her favorite lady’s maid undress her, then braid her hair and tie it back. They force her to keep upright and walk around. “It helps the baby’s passage,” says the midwife. When the strongest contraction she’s had yet convulses through her belly she screams out in pain for the first time. She is already exhausted and dripping with sweat. Her hair is wet at her temples and she is desperate for water. Her plea is steadfastly met with a bucket and drinking spoon shoved straight at her face. They pour it down her throat and wipe her brow, cooing at her calmly. Their gentle hands make her desperately wish for her mother’s smooth fingers to comb through her hair and caress her cheek with her kind whispers.

******************

“Aaaaaahhhhhhh, I can’t do anymore….I can’t! I can’t!” she screams and pleads with the midwife and Maester as they peer at her once secret place. Her shift is soaked through with sweat and the gauzy cotton transparent. The tie at the front has come undone and she viciously pulls the fabric away from her neck, desperate for air. Her now full bosom glistening with sweat as it peaked out of the nightdress.

After walking for another hour until she felt she could no longer hold herself up, she was instructed to sit on a birthing chair Cersei insisted they brought from the Maester’s chamber far below, downstairs. She swore it was the key to her three successful births. All Sansa could think on from that sentence was the hideous number three. _Three successful births_ , she sneered to herself. And to think those were only the successful ones. She almost fainted at the thought.

She sat on it willingly even though she dreaded these people seeing her in such an awkward state. After some long moments she couldn’t bear to be on it any longer. She wanted to curse Cersei for even wasting her time. Now she rested on the bed again, her back supported by pillows and two ladies maids at each knee spreading them as far as they would go. She felt so exposed and was in such pain. _And I am alone._ His eyes reach her mind for only a moment, and then vanish as the next push swallows her mind. The babe’s head causes a pressure on her pelvis and opening, and she feels as if she’ll tear apart! Her bowels feel loose and her heart is racing. She screams with every push and tears rush down her face. Then, to her astonishment, she feels the exact moment when the head pushes through and the rest, along with her consciousness, seems to fall away. The moment the child is gently thrown into her arms feels as if she is outside herself; it has a hyper sense of reality. Everything goes black for an instant, and when she comes to she looks down see the most perfect babe has been placed in her arms. It is all dark hair and large eyes, its nose swollen, and its delicate skin battered and spotty red from the rough journey through her pelvis. Its mouth is round and wide as a full-hearted cry rushes from its lips. The sound immediately causes her to cry, and instinctively brings the child to her chest.

The Maester is at her side looking down on the tiny creature, “It’s a girl.” He says quietly, a small smile melting part of his severe face. “She’s very healthy looking.” He adds.

But Sansa only partially hears him as she returns to looking at her child. The midwife suddenly puts her hand under the babe’s head as if to carry her away. Sansa gravely glares at her, and tries to move her away from the woman’s grasp. Before the little thing is out of the midwife’s reach the woman brings one practiced hand to hers and guides it to her breast, cupping it in a crescent hold while the other hand brings the babe to her nipple. Her little mouth instinctively opens into an “O”, frantically rooting for her breast. It is an odd sensation as she suckles her, and Sansa is surprised by how strong she is.

“That’s a good start. She most certainly is a healthy babe. Wait a fortnight and you’ll both be well-practiced. There will be pain, my child, but it will subside and your milk will flow as long as she requires.”

“What shall you name her?” the midwife asks as she releases her hand. She paused a moment. She had always thought she would name her daughter Catelyn. As a child it just seemed proper, but now, given the man she was married to. It seemed wrong to name her after the person who caused him so much anguish.

“I think I shall call her Levina. Levina Catelyn Baelish.” Sansa deemed it a fitting name.

The name met ‘bright flash’, and the way Sansa felt, that was how she came to her. She was the ethereal white that caught in the peripherals of her eyes as the warm wave of pleasure coursed through her body, burning from the bottom of her toes and out through her chest when he consumed her with himself. Sansa can still remember that night of passion; her womanly intuition had told her the moment it happened, that specific second when his seed had found its home in her womb. No matter what happened between her and Baelish, it would never change the fact that this magnificent, delicate creature was born out of that unequivocal breath of blissful love between two people who shared as perfect a moment together as anyone could hope for in this life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience guys. I hope you enjoy this chapter! As always best wishes to everyone. :D


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